<-> 


BRUCE  GOTTEN    U 


COLLECTION 

OF 

NORTH     CAKOLINBANA 


S^^^^^^^^^^^^Ei 


\ 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


THE  COLLECTION  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINIANA 


CC326.92 
W72a 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/auntsallyorcrossamer 


fy&ILL 


AUNT  SALLY 


on, 


THE  CROSS  THE  WAY  OF  FREEDOM. 


A  NARRATIVE  OF  THE  SLAVE-LIFE  AND  PUKCHASE 

OF   THE    MOTHER    OF    REV.   ISAAC 

WILLIAMS,  OF  DETROIT, 

MICHIGAN. 


"Thou  shalt  no  more  be  termed  Forsaken,    ....    for  the 
Lord  delighteth  in  thee."— Isaiah  lxii:  4. 


CINCINNATI: 
WESTERN  TRACT  AND  BOOK  FOCIETY. 


Copyright  secured  to  the 

AMERICAN  REFORM  TRACT  AND  BOOK  SOCIETY, 

Cincinnati,  Ohio. 


Stereotyped  by  C.  F.  O'Driscoll  &  On. 


PREFACE. 


There  are  very  few  Anti-Slavery  books 

adapted  to  the  young,  yet  no   field   could 

furnish   a    more    attractive    literature    for 

children  than  this.    Robinson  Crusoe  and 

the  Arabian  Mghts   would    seem   lifeless 

and  uninteresting  by  the  side  of  hundreds 

of    true     and     simple    narratives    which 

might   be    written   of    slave    life    in    our 

Southern    States.      This    story   of   "Aunt 

Sally"    is,  probably,   no   more  remarkable 

than  multitudes  of   others;     only   it    has 

chanced  to  come  to  notice.     It  is   strictly 

true  in  all  its  incidents.     It  has  not  been 

embellished,  or  wrought  up  for  effect^  but 

ill 


IV  PREFACE. 


is  given,  as  nearly  as  possible,  in  the 
words  in  which  it  was  related  to  the 
writer.  "Aunt  Sally"  is  a  veritable  per- 
son, and  is  now  living  in  Detroit,  Michi- 
gan, with  her  son,  Rev.  Isaac  Williams, 
who  is  pastor  of  a  Methodist  church 
there. 

The  portraits  in  this  book  have  been 
engraved  from  daguerreotypes,  which  are 
faithful  likenesses  of  "Aunt  Sally,"  her 
son  and  his  family. 

The  writer  hopes  that  this  little  story 
may  be  the  means  of  leading  those  who 
read  it  to  think  and  feel  deeply  upon  the 
truths  which  it  involves,  and  that  many 
more  similar  books  may  be  written  for 
our  Sabbath  Schools,  so  that  the  young 
may  grow  up  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
liberty,   and    rejoicing    to    labor    for  that 


PREFACE.  Y 

oppressed  and  unhappy  race  which  "Aunt 
Sally"  represents,  so,  at  length,  this  unfor- 
tunate people  shall  be  slaves  no  longer, 
but  shall  find  that,  to  them  all,  the  Cross 
has  been  the  "Way  of  Freedom. 
Brooklyn,  N.  F.,  May,  1858. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGI. 

Chap.      I. — Introductory 9 

II. — Introductory 16 

III. — Sunshine  and  Clouds  of  Childhood 24 

IV. — The  Camp  Meeting 33 

V.— The  Wedding 46 

VI. — A  Slave's  Work  and  a  Slave's  Home 55 

VII.— A  Husband  Sold . 66 

VIIL— A  New  Husband—Children  Sold 78 

IX.— The  Horn  a  Desolate— the  Mother  Sold  too..  88 

X.— The  Slave-Pen 98 

XL— The  Slave-Gang 113 

XII.— Almost  Despair 127 

XIIL— Sold  Again— Gleams  of  Light ,.  138 

XIV.— The  Lash— Flight  and  Return 149 

XV.— The  Tyrannical   Mistress — A   Slave's   Sab- 
hath 162 

XVI. — News  from  a  long-lost  Son 170 

XVIL— The  Light  of  Hope  at  last 180 

XVIIL— Hope  Realized 192 

XIX. — A  Home  in  Freedom  and  Peace 207 


AUNT   SALLY 


CHAPTER    I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 


Mother  !  it  is  the  holiest  word 
That  ever  out  of  heaven  was  heard ! 
Her  heart  beats  on,  though  free  or  slave, 
All  warm  for  those  whose  life  she  gave; 
And  sooner  can  the  verdant  cane 
Forget  its  liquid  sweets  to  gain, 
And  the  magnolia's  flowers  of  snow 
To  open  when  the  soft  winds  blow, 
And  the  lone  stars  to  shine  above, 
Than  I  '11  forget  her  faithful  love ! 

Some  twenty-five  years  ago,  in  Fayetteville, 
North  Carolina,  a  slave  boy,  named  Isaac 
Williams,  was  suddenly  told  that  his  mother 
had  been  sold  to  a  speculator,  and  was  going 
to  Alabama.  He  loved  her  with  all  the  ardor 
of  a  young  heart  which  had  nothing  else  to 
cling  to,  and  when  these  terrible  words  fell 
on  his  ear,  he  sank  down,  overcome  with  an- 

(9) 


10  AUNT   SALLY. 


guisk  and  dismay.  All  the  past  came  back 
to  him,  sorrowful  indeed,  but  endurable  be- 
cause shared  with  her.  His  earliest  recollec- 
tions were  of  those  long  days  in  the  rice- 
fields,  when  she  carried  him  securely  fastened 
to  her  back,  with  his  baby  brother  tucked  in 
her  dress  in  front,  because  she  would  not  leave 
them  to  be  neglected  in  her  cabin,  nor  lay 
them  down,  where  snakes  might  crawl  over 
them,  by  the  side  of  the  fence.  How  weary 
she  must  have  been,  his  young  mother;  for 
then  she  was  scarcely  seventeen  ;  but  yet  how 
kind  she  was;  how  patient  when  he  was  tired 
and  fretful !  He  thought  of  th e  many  evenings 
he  had  seen  her  spinning  by  the  light-wood 
fire,  that  she  might  have  yarn  for  knitting 
socks,  wherewith  to  purchase  a  jacket  or  a  hat 
or  a  pair  of  shoes  for  his  Sunday  wear,  or 
sewing  industriously  to  make  or  mend  some 
needful  garment,  when  so  fatigued  with  the 
day's  labor  that  she  nodded  between  the 
stitches,  and  at  last  sat  down  in  heavy  slumber 
over  her  work.  He  th  ought  of  all  the  prayers 
she  had  offered  for  him,  and  of  her  faithful 
counsels  as  he  came  to  maturer  years.  He 
remembered  her  grief  when  his  father  was 
sold  from  her,  and    yet  the   meekness   with 


AUNT   SALLY.  11 


which  she  yielded  to  what  she  could  not  pre- 
vent, and  the  quiet  cheerfulness  and  energy 
with  which  she  toiled  to  provide  a  comfortable 
home  for  herself  and  her  children  when  she 
had  hired  her  time  of  her  master.  All  these 
and  a  thousand  recollections  more  flashed 
upon  his  mind  as  he  heard  of  her  fate,  and 
ran  to  ask  his  master's  permission  to  go  and 
bid  her  farewell.  It  was  granted,  and  first 
he  went  to  the  little  house  which  she  had 
rented,  and  where  she  had  earned  her  living 
by  the  sale  of  cakes  and  beer.  He  opened  the 
door.  All  was  confusion.  The  few  articles 
of  furniture,  which  she  had  labored  so  hard 
to  obtain,  were  either  removed  or  lying  in 
disorder  about  the  room.  The  bright  fire 
was  out,  the  welcoming  voice  was  silent. 
Upon  inquiry,  he  learned  that  her  purchaser 
had  taken  her,  with  many  others,  to  a  "  wagon- 
yard,"  or,  more  properly,  slave-pen,  where 
they  would  be  kept  securely  till  he  was  ready 
to  start  on  his  distant  journey.  Thither  he 
bent  his  steps.  When  he  reached  the  place, 
he  found  that  his  old  grandmother,  who  lived 
several  miles  farther  in  the  country,  had  heard 
also  of  her  daughter's  sale,  and  had  come  with 
tears  and  tremblings  to  bid  her  adieu. 


12  AUNT   SALLY. 


Can  you  imagine  a  scene  like  this?  Can 
you  think  of  your  mother,  who,  dear  as  she 
is,  is  no  dearer  to  you  than  Isaac's  was  to 
him,  torn  by  brute  force  from  her  home,  shut 
up  in  a  narrow  yard  like  a  wild  animal  in  a 
cage,  her  every  look  and  tear  watched  by  her 
purchaser,  who  walks  about,  whip  in  hand,  to 
quell  any  who  may  be  refractory,  and  her 
last  agonized  words  of  affection  spoken  to 
you  through  a  crack  in  the  fence  which 
guards  the  enclosure?  Yet  all  this  the  poor 
boy  had  to  suffer,  and  his  heart  was  as  tender 
as  yours. 

What  would  you  do?  Would  you  become 
almost  frantic  in  your  grief,  and  rave  wildly 
at  the  master,  and  strive  to  break  down  the 
bars  and  release  your  mother  from  so  terrible 
a  captivity?  Would  you?  Then  you  would 
be  guilty  of  treason  and  rebellion  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law,  and  her  owner  would  be  justified 
in  imprisoning  you — nay,  in  taking  your  life 
if  he  deemed  it  expedient.  Merciful  Father! 
pity  those  whom  no  man  pities,  and  by  thine 
own  power  elevate  those  on  whom  the  world 
and  the  world's  law  tramples! 

So  poor  Isaac  could  only  sob  as  if  his  heart 
would  break,  and  wonder  why  he  and  sha 


AUNT   SALLY.  13 


were  ever  born  (was  it  strange?)  and  resolve 
with  his  whole  soul,  that  if  God  spared  his 
life,  he  would  one  day  be  free,  and  seek  out 
his  mother,  and  redeem  her,  though  she  were 
sold  to  a  thousand  Alabamas.  Thus  they 
parted. 

The  slave-train  moved  off,  and  Isaac  and 
his  old  grandmother  returned  to  their  re- 
spective masters.  How  dark  seemed  the  way 
to  him  now.  He  could  no  longer  anticipate, 
as  heretofore,  a  Sunday  visit  to  his  mother, 
and  a  treat  of  cakes  and  beer.  There  was  no 
one  to  speak  an  affectionate  or  encouraging 
word  to  him.  Sometimes  he  was  tempted  to 
be  wholly  discouraged,  but  he  determined  tc 
rise  above  such  a  feeling,  and  to  keep  un- 
changed his  faith  in  God  and  his  purpose 
of  freedom.  So  several  years  passed  away, 
during  which  he  grew  to  manhood,  when  a 
death  occurred  in  his  master's  family  which 
rendered  a  division  of  the  property — that  is, 
of  the  men  and  women — necessary,  and  Isaac 
fell  to  a  relative  in  Mississippi.  Farewell  to 
North  Carolina!  True,  he  was  still  a  slave, 
but  he  felt  that  in  some  way  he  was  moving 
toward  liberty,  and  so  went  gladly  over  the 
mountains  and   rivers  to  his  untried   home. 


14  AUNT   SALLY. 


He  had  not  been  long  settled  there  when, 
in  1833,  he  married  a  young  colored  woman, 
on  an  adjacent  plantation.  And  now  that  he 
had  a  wife  and  children  growing  up  about 
him,  did  he  lose  sight  of  his  early  resolution  ? 
By  no  means.  He  was  always  revolving  in 
his  mind  how  he  should  compass  his  own 
freedom  and  regain  his  mother.  In  1838,  his 
master  went  to  Mobile,  and  Isaac  accompa- 
nied him  as  his  waiting-man.  There  was 
then  living  there  a  cousin  of  his  mother's,  an 
intelligent  slave  woman,  named  Mary  Ann 
"Williams.  To  her  he  applied,  hoping  she 
could  give  him  some  information.  He  was 
disappointed ;  she  knew  nothing  of  her  cous- 
in's fate,  but  promised  to  remember  her,  and 
as  she  could  write,  to  communicate  to  him 
everything  she  might  be  able  to  learn.  Mean- 
while his  wife's  freedom  was  purchased  by 
her  father,  and  Isaac,  hiring  his  time  of  his 
master,  went  to  Orleans  and  worked  as  a 
carpenter  until  he  had  gained  his  own.  Eut 
he  did  not  forget  his  mother ;  she  was  always 
the  burden  of  his  thoughts  and  his  prayers. 
How  many  plans  did  he  make  to  ascertain 
where  she  was;  how  many  letters  did  he 
write  to  Tuscaloosa  and  Mobile,  and  to  every 


AUNT   SALLY.  15 


place  where  he  thought  there  could  be  the 
least  possibility  of  gaining  the  desired  in- 
telligence !  At  length,  when  he  had  almost 
despaired  of  success,  he  received  a  letter  from 
Mary  Ann  Williams,  at  Mobile,  telling  him 
that,  by  a  singular  incident,  which  will  be 
narrated  hereafter,  she  had  learned  that  his 
mother  was  living,  and  owned  by  a  man, 
whose  name  she  gave,  in  Dallas  county,  Ala- 
bama. She  was  alive  then !  She  had  not 
died  on  the  fatiguing  journey,  nor  been  beaten 
to  death  by  a  cruel  overseer,  nor  allowed  her- 
self to  waste  away  with  grief  at  her  ruthless 
separation  from  all  she  loved.  He  thanked 
God,  and  wrote  to  her  master,  telling  him  of 
his  purpose  to  redeem  her,  and  asking  him 
to  name  the  price  at  which  she  would  be 
sold.  Long  he  waited  for  an  answer;  she 
was  doubtless  valuable  to  her  owner,  and  he 
was  unwilling  to  part  with  her.  Again  and 
again  he  wrote,  but  to  be  disappointed. 

And  now  Isaac  resolved  to  leave  Missis- 
sippi. He  wanted  to  breathe  the  free  air. 
After  various  adventures,  he  at  last  reached 
the  Northern  States  with  his  family,  and 
finally  settled  in  Detroit,  Michigan .* 

*The  details  of  Mr.  Williams's  life  are  not  given,  as 
he  intends  eventually  to  publish  his  own  memoirs. 


16  AUNT   SALLY. 


CHAPTER    II. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


It  may  gladden  the  diver's  heart  to  gain, 

From  the  depths  of  the  Indian  sea, 
A  pearl  as  fair  as  the  dew-drops  are 

That  lie  on  the  summer  lea. 
And  sweet  to  the  hunter  passing  through 

The  woodland's  leafy  door, 
May  come  the  song  of  a  timid  bird 

That  never  was  heard  before; 
And  the  breath  of  a  flower  by  the  brooklet's  side, 

That  all  unseen  till  then 
Has  opened  its  buds  to  the  wooing  airs 

Of  the  silent  forest  glen. 
And  blest  it  may  be  to  the  lover's  thought, 

To  win  from  the  world  so  cold, 
The  bride  with  her  warm  and  trustful  heart, 

In  his  tender  arms  to  fold. 
But  the  love  for  her  who  gave  me  birth 

Is  richer  than  ocean  mines ; 
I  would  rather  gaze  on  my  mother's  face 

Than  the  purest  pearl  that  shines  I 
And  list  to  her  songs  when  day  is  done 

Than  the  notes  of  the  rarest  bird, — 
More  grateful  than  choicest  flowers'  perfume, 

Would  be  every  soothing  word. 


AUNT   SALLY.  17 


And  the  lover's  delight  is  weak  and  faint 
To  the  joy  that  would  fill  my  breast, 

If  far  from  her  sad  and  ceaseless  toil, 
I  could  bear  her  away  to  rest. 

Oh  Thou,  who  dost  pity  the  poor,  look  down, 
And  grant  to  my  life  this  glorious  crown ! 
Years  of  anxiety  and  effort  and  hope  de- 
ferred went  by.  At  length,  in  1852,  Isaao 
received  from  his  mother's  master  the  long- 
desired  letter,  saying  he  would  sell  her  to 
him  for  the  sum  of  four  hundred  dollars. 
But  now  that  the  old  trouble  was  over,  a 
new  fear  tormented  the  faithful  son.  Was 
this  woman  really  his  mother?  More  than 
twenty  years  had  passed  since  they  were 
separated,  and  the  only  evidence  he  had  of 
her  existence  was  the  testimony  of  her  cousin 
in  Mobile.  Slight  foundation  it  seemed  upon 
which  to  rest  so  weighty  a  matter.  Might 
it  not  be  merely  a  plan  of  her  master's  to 
lure  him  into  the  dominions  of  slavery  and 
punish  him  for  his  free  spirit ;  or  else  to  dis- 
pose probably  of  an  old  and  useless  servant  ? 
His  heart  sickened  at  the  thought.  He  must 
be  sure  that  he  was  right  before  he  went 
further,  for  to  be  disappointed  at  last  would 
be  more  than  he  could  bear.  So  he  wrote 
A  letter  to  the  master,  asking  him  to  put  va- 
2 


18  AUNT   SALLY. 


rious  questions  to  her,  relative  to  incidents  in 
his  early  life,  with  which  she  only  was  ac- 
quainted. 

If  your  mother  had  been  lost  for  twenty 
years,  and  you  hoped  to  regain  her  through 
the  remembrances  of  your  childhood,  how 
would  you  recall  the  birthday  festival,  and 
the  prayers  for  you  beside  your  little  bed 
when  your  head  was  on  her  bosom,  and  the 
twilight  walk  through  the  rose-scented  lanes 
when  she  told  you  a  story  of  her  girlish  days, 
and  that  sad  morning  when,  for  an  outbreak 
of  passion,  you  fell  into  disgrace  with  your 
father,  and  she  soothed  and  calmed  you,  and 
gently  led  you  back  to  the  path  of  duty  and 
of  love !  Isaac  was  a  poor  slave  boy  when 
he  knew  a  mother's  care,  but  servitude  can 
not  crush  out  the  heart's  flowers,  and  he  had 
remembrances  which  were  sweet  to  him,  and 
which  he  knew  would  wake  a  response  in  her 
heart  if  living  she  were.  How  anxiously  did 
he  wait  for  that  letter  which  would  be  life  or 
death  to  his  hopes !  It  came  at  last.  His 
questions  were  more  than  answered.  Taking 
up  the  incidents  as  he  narrated  them,  she  had 
gone  farther  and  recalled  many  things  which 
he  had  forgotten,  and  sent  them  to  him  in 


AUNT   SALLY.  19 


her  simple  words  with  messages  of  affec- 
tion. 

That  night  what  fervent  thanksgiving  did 
he  send  up  to  heaven  for  the  blessed  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  a  mother — he  who  had 
been  so  friendless  in  the  world ;  that  she 
loved  and  trusted  him,  and  perhaps  was  even 
then  supplicating  their  common  Father  for 
her  distant  son. 

He  now  set  about  preparing  to  raise  the 
money  for  her  liberation.  In  March,  1856, 
he  left  Detroit,  stopping  wherever  he  had 
friends,  or  could  make  them,  and  finally 
reached  New  York  in  early  autumn,  having 
some  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  collected. 

After  a  few  weeks  in  the  city  and  vicinity, 
he  raised  the  balance  of  the  amount,  and  then 
a  new  difficulty  arose.  How  was  the  money 
to  be  transmitted,  and  his  mother  broaght 
North?  For  experience  has  shown  that  it  is 
a  less  troublesome  and  delicate  thing  to  deal 
with  Japan,  and  China,  and  Algiers,  than 
with  our  Southern  States,  when  it  is  desired 
to  give  to  any  of  the  colored  population  their 
birthright  of  freedom.  Various  plans  were 
proposed  and  abandoned.  At  last  he  wont  to 
the  office  of  Adams's  Express  Company,  to  see 


20  AUNT   SALLY. 


if  it  could  be  accomplished  through  their  means. 
They  declined  doing  it  directly,  but  referred 
him  to  a  well-known  merchant  of  New  York, 
as  one  who  would  advise  and  assist  him,  and 
for  whom  they  would  willingly  undertake  the 
matter.  This  gentleman  listened  to  the  story, 
and  going  to  the  Bank  of  the  Republic,  which 
is  very  popular  at  the  South,  deposited  the 
money  there,  and  arranged  with  the  officers 
to  have  their  correspondent  in  Selma,  Ala- 
bama, purchase  the  woman  and  see  her,  with 
the  requisite  papers,  consigned  to  the  care  of 
the  Express  company. 

The  burden  of  care  was  now  taken  from 
Isaac ;  the  responsibility  rested  upon  others. 
He  had  been  buoyant  and  full  of  courage 
while  active  exertion  remained,  but  when 
that  was  ended  and  nothing  was  left  for 
him  but  patient  waiting,  the  very  intensity 
of  his  feelings  gave  birth  to  fears,  and  led 
him  to  count  the  chances  for  her  safe  release, 
and  to  brood  over  every  possible  disaster. 
She  had  been  lost  to  him  for  a  score  of  years, 
and  he  could  have  heard  of  her  death  at  any 
time  with  comparative  resignation,  but  now 
that  she  had  come  back  to  him  in  blessed 
resurrection,  and  the  meeting  seemed  so  near, 


AUNT   SALLY.  21 


her  loss  would  be  like  shipwreck  to  the 
storm-tossed  mariner,  when  just  in  sight  of 
the  green  fields,  and  the  peaceful  spire,  and 
the  cottage  of  love  for  which  his  heart  had 
yearned  through  all  the  dreary  voyage.  Dis- 
turbed and  anxious,  he  went  that  evening  to 
his  lodgings,  and  retiring  to  rest,  was  soon  lost 
in  uneasy  slumber. 

And  he  dreamed.  Some  of  his  life-scenes 
passed  before  him  like  the  moving  pictures 
of  a  panorama,  so  real  that  the  present  was 
forgotten  in  the  past  they  restored.  He  saw 
himself  a  boy,  sitting  on  the  dirt-floor  of  his 
mother's  little  cabin  at  Fayetteville,  after  a 
hard  day's  work,  and  pouring  his  sorrows 
into  her  sympathizing  ear.  He  had  just  be- 
gun to  realize  what  it  is  to  be  a  slave.  He 
had  been  accustomed  to  play  with  the  mas- 
ter's children,  and  had  had  many  little  privi- 
leges about  the  house,  but  now  that  he  was 
old  enough  to  labor,  he  was  kept  in  the  field 
from  dawn  till  dusk,  under  the  eye  of  an 
overseer  who  had  no  leniency  for  his  youth 
nor  compassion  for  his  fatigue.  The  poor 
mother  could  not  point  her  boy  to  a  brighter 
lot,  so  she  only  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  she  drew 
the  "  hoe-cake"  from  the  ashes  for  their  even- 


22  AUNT    SALLY. 


ing  meal,  "Well,  Isaac,  you  must  try  and  do 
your  duty  by  mas'r,  and  the  Lord  Jesus  '11 
stand  by  ye.  Near  as  I  can  find  out,  He 
had  heaps  o'  trouble  all  His  days." 

The  cabin  faded  away,  and,  almost  a  man 
in  years  and  size,  he  stood  by  the  "  slave- 
pen,"  bidding  her  farewell  before  she  went  to 
Alabama.  With  unutterable  grief  he  turned 
to  depart,  but  her  faith  would  not  let  her  go 
without  one  word  of  comfort,  so  she  called 
after  him,  "Keep  a  good  heart,  Isaac,  and  the 
Lord  help  ye !  Put  your  trust  in  Him  and 
He'll  never  leave  nor  forsake  ye.  Perhaps 
we  shall  see  each  other  before  we  die  !  "  This 
great  anguish  passed  over,  and  he  was  in 
Louisiana,  toiling  for  his  freedom.  Hundreds 
of  dollars  had  been  paid  to  his  master,  but 
obstacles  were  constantly  thrown  in  his  way, 
and  he  was  sometimes  on  the  point  of  rebel- 
lion and  despair.  But  he  thought  of  his 
mother,  and  seemed  to  hear  her  saying,  as 
of  old,  "Be  patient;  keep  on,  and  the  good 
Lord  '11  bring  it  all  right  one  o'  dese  morn- 
ins."  And  then  he  was  a  free  man  in  De- 
troit, and  the  pastor  of  a  Methodist  church ; 
longing  earnestly  that  his  mother  might  share 
the  advantages  of  his   position,   and  feeling 


AUNT    SALLY.  23 


inspired  every  day  to  labor  by  the  remem- 
brance of  her  christian  virtues.  And  then  he 
was  in  the  actual  present,  and  the  money  had 
been  sent  for  her  redemption,  and  he  was 
trembling  lest  after  all,  the  scheme  might 
fail,  In  his  dream  he  cried  to  heaven,  "O 
merciful  Father !  shall  all  her  faith  and  trust 
in  Thee  be  for  nought?  Wilt  thou  not  re- 
ward the  love  and  service  of  sixty  years  ? " 
And  then  he  thought  an  angel  bent  over  him 
and  whispered,  "  Fear  not,  thy  fidelity  and 
hers  have  been  chronicled.  Wait  a  little 
while  and  thou  shalt  clasp  thy  mother  in 
ihine  arms/' 

He  awoke.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly 
into  the  room,  and  having  faith  now  that  he 
was  soon  to  meet  her,  he  rose  and  prepared 
to  leave  New  York  for  a  little  while,  in  order 
to  raise  the  money  necessary  to  defray  their 
expenses  till  they  should  reach  Detroit. 


24  AUNT   SALLY. 


CHAPTER    III. 

SUNSHINE  AND  CLOUDS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

A  child  should  be  a  merry  thing, 

A  butterfly  upon  the  wing ; 

A  bee  upon  a  crimson  clover, 

With  honey-dew  half  silvered  over; 

A  crystal  brook  that  'neath  the  moon, 

Glides  onward  through  the  nights  of  June; 

A  heart' s-ease  by  a  garden  wall, 

The  loveliest  of  the  lovely  all; 

A  lark  in  heavenly  circles  singing, 

Till  the  wide  air  with  music 's  ringing  j 

A  sunbeam  dancing  in  and  out, 

Reflecting  golden  joy  about; 

Now  sparkling  like  a  rainbow  braid, 

Now  lapsing  when  it  likes  to  shade ; 

A  soft  and  perfume-scented  breeze, 

Full  of  the  tenderest  harmonies ; 

Now  showering  roses  from  the  tree, 

Now  opening  roses  yet  to  be. 

Ah  me !  how  few  are  born  to  this ! 
How  few  have  felt  love's  sacred  kiss 
Upon  their  foreheads  when  they  came 
All  radiant  from  the  Eternal  Flame! 
The  birds  of  song  are  cold  and  mute, 
The  honey-dew  is  gone  for  them, 


AUNT   SALLY.  25 


Joy  brings  them  but  a  broken  lute, 
And  Life's  tree  but  a  flowerless  stem. 
Thank  God !  there  is  a  brighter  world, 
Where  every  hope  shall  be  unfurled 
In  sweet  fruition  to  the  air ; 
And  all  who  yearn  for  love  shall  there 
Upon  the  dear  Redeemers  breast, 
Find  perfect  love  and  perfect  rest ! 

Having  thus  far  followed  the  son,  let  us 
leave  him  among  his  Northern  friends,  and 
return  to  trace  the  history  of  the  mother. 

About  the  year  1796,  (a  slave's  precise  age  is 
a  matter  of  conjecture,)  in  a  small  cabin  on  a 
plantation  not  many  miles  from  Fayetteville, 
North  Carolina,  a  little  colored  girl  was  born. 
There  were  no  great  rejoicings  when  she  came 
into  the  world.  Her  parents  had  been  all 
their  lives  in  servitude,  and  knew  no  higher 
pleasures  than  it  afforded,  but  they  felt,  de- 
spite their  ignorance,  that  their  days  passed 
wearily,  and  it  was  no  joy  to  them  to  rear 
children  for  the  same  fate.  No  dainty  ward- 
robe was  ready  for  her  use ;  no  tiny  caps  nor 
embroidered  dress,  nor  soft  flannel  blanket, 
but  with  her  midnight  earnings  the  mother 
had  purchased  two  frocks  of  cheap  print,  to 
which  her  mistress  had  added  one  of  her  own 


26  AUNT   SALLY. 


children's  cast-off  dresses ;  and  in  this  coarse 
apparel  the  little  Sally,  for  so  she  was  called, 
rolled  about  and  stretched  her  chubby  limbs 
as  complacently  as  if  she  had  been  enveloped 
in  a  princess'  lace  and  linen. 

In  a  few  weeks  the  mother  returned  to  her 
labor  in  the  field,  and  Sally  was  placed  with 
old  "Aunt  Katy,"  woo  had  charge  of  all  the 
children  on  the  plantation.  At  night,  when 
the  tasks  were  done,  her  mother  took  her  to 
her  own  dwelling,  returning  her  in  the  morn- 
ing to  the  nurse.  So  she  passed  through  ba- 
byhood, and  grew  into  a  stout  little  girl,  run- 
ning about  the  cabin  and  over  the  grounds,  as 
unconscious  of  her  relations  to  life  as  the  dog 
with  which  she  played,  or  the  bird  that  sang 
in  the  old  sycamore  above  the  door.  No  pains 
were  taken  to  develop  anything  but  her  animal 
nature — no  one  taught  her  to  lisp  the  name 
of  God,  or  to  trace  His  hand  in  every  object 
which  surrounded  her,  or  to  regard  His  holy 
law  in  her  daily  life.  Why  should  they? 
She  was  only  a  piece  of  property !  Her 
mother,  although  possessed  of  more  than 
ordinary  intelligence  and  energy,  was  not 
then  a  religious  woman.  In  spite  of  her  hard 
labor,  she  managed  to  keep  her  cabin  in  better 


AUNT   SALLY.  27 


order,  and  her  children  more  comfortably  clad 
than  most  of  the  other  servants ;  indeed,  so  full 
of  life  and  spirit  was  she,  that  when  the  toil- 
some week  was  over,  none  enjoyed  more  highly 
the  Saturday-evening  dance  or  the  Sunday  ho- 
liday. She  was  a  good  mother,  as  far  as  she 
knew,  and  trained  her  children  to  habits  of  in- 
dustry and  activity.  Speaking  of  those  days, 
Aunt  Salty  said :  "  I  tell  you  how  my  mother 
done  me — she  whipped  me  when  I  did  n't  work 
to  please  her,  but 't  was  the  gloriousest  thing  !" 
The  master  required  but  little  work  of  the 
child.  It  is  policy  to  leave  the  slaves  to  grow 
and  strengthen,  unfatigued  by  labor,  until  they 
are  old  enough  to  be  constantly  occupied,  as  a 
colt  is  left  unshackled,  with  free  range  of  the 
pastures,  until  the  "breaking"  time  comes. 
When  about  nine  years  old,  Sally  began  to 
be  employed  in  doing  errands  for  her  mis- 
tress, in  sweeping  the  leaves  from  the  walks, 
and  in  weeding  the  garden.  She  was  full  of 
fun  and  frolic,  but  she  meant  to  be  a  good 
girl,  and  whenever  she  was  blamed  for  any 
thing,  although  she  tried  to  escape  the  threat- 
ened whipping,  yet  she  was  careful  not  to  b< 
guilty  of  the  same  offense  again.  There  was 
a  little  girl,  named  Mary,  about  her  own  age 


28  AUNT   SALLY. 


who  shared  all  her  tasks.  Rare  play-fellows 
they  were — talking  and  singing  and  running 
about  together  from  morning  till  night.  One 
bright  day  in  Sally's  tenth  summer,  Mary 
suddenly  sickened  and  died.  So  full  of  life 
when  the  sun  arose — so  silent,  so  motionless, 
when  it  went  down  !  It  was  the  first  be- 
reavement Sally  had  ever  known,  and  she 
was  almost  frantic  in  her  grief.  No  one  told 
her  of  death's  brighter  meaning;  she  saw 
only  its  sternness  and  gloom.  Throwing  her- 
self beside  the  unconscious  child,  and  sleep- 
ing only  at  momentary  intervals,  she  con- 
sumed the  night  in  calling  upon  her  name, 
and  when  morning  came,  she  went  to  the 
garden,  and,  gathering  the  choicest  flowers, 
placed  them  in  her  hand,  as  if  death  were 
an  ugly  dream  which  daylight  and  bloom 
would  scare  away.  So  the  weary  hours  went 
by,  and  when  at  evening  preparations  were 
made  for  the  funeral,  she  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  join  the  procession.  How  strange  and 
solemn  it  seemed  as  all  the  servants  of  the 
household,  bearing  lighted  torches,  walked 
two  by  two  through  the  forest  path  to  the 
burying-ground,  preceded  by  the  preacher, 
singing  these  dirge-like  words — 


AUNT   SALLY.  29 


11  Bear  her  gently,  calm  and  slow, 
To  the  home  where  she  must  go : 
One  by  one  we  '11  follow  on, 
By  and  by  we  '11  all  be  gone 
Over  Jordan. 

"Deep  within  the  pine  tree's  shade 

Has  her  quiet  grave  been  made ; 

Sleeping  here  and  sleeping  there, 

We  shall  meet  from  everywhere 

Over  Jordan. 

"Now  we  leave  her  to  her  rest; 
Jesus  1  Savior !  ever  blest, 
Take  us  soon  from  earth's  alarms, 
Safe  within  Thy  sheltering  arms 
Over  Jordan ! " 

The  little  coffin  was  lowered,  the  earth  was 
thrown  upon  it,  and  with  another  wailing 
song  the  party  returned.  But  Sally  did  not 
forget. 

It  was  a  balmy  day  in  October.  The  fervid 
heats  of  summer  were  over,  and  there  was  a 
refreshing  coolness  in  the  air.  The  garden 
was  gay  with  autumn  flowers,  and  every  wafb 
of  wind  that  went  over  the  trees,  bore  to  the 
ground  the  broad  leaves  of  the  sycamore  to 
rest  upon  the  myriad  needles  of  the  pine. 
In  one  of  the  paths  stood  Sally,  broom  in 


SO  •       AUNT   SALLY. 


hand,  busy  in  removing  them  as  they  fell. 
She  looked  up  and  saw,  approaching,  her 
young  master,  a  handsome  youth,  elegantly 
attired,  and  having  in  his  face  and  manner  a 
certain  reckless  frankness  which  defied  the 
judgment  and  straightway  won  the  heart. 
Sally's  quickness  pleased  him,  and  he  often 
stopped  to  exchange  a  kind  word  with  her. 
"This  wind  keeps  you  busy,  eh,  Sally?" 
"  Yes,  Mas'r.  Don  't  more  'n  get  'em  swept 
away  'fore  down  they  conies  agin." 

"Is  that  what  makes  you  look  so  sober?" 
"No.  Mas'r.  I 's  thinkin'  'bout  Mary,  an' 
wonderin  whar  sh'e  is,  'cause  the  preacher 
said,  when  they  put  her  in  the  ground,  she  'd 
gone  ober  Jordan,  an'  we  must  all  get  religion 
an'  follow  on  arter,  an'  'pears  like  I  dunno 
'xactly  what  he  meant." 

"Now,  Sally,  don't  you  believe  any  such 
canting  nonsense.  When  we  die,  that's  the 
end  of  us;  there's  no  hereafter.  "Look  here," 
— and  as  he  spoke  he  trod  one  of  the  yellow 
sycamore  leaves  into  the  earth — "see  this 
leaf!  In  a  few  days  it  will  be  crumbled  into 
dust;  it's  so  with  us  when  we  die,  and  that  is 
all." 

"But,   Mas'r,   I  thought  mebbe  we  might 


AUNT   SALLY.  31 


come  up  out  of  the  ground  sometime,  like  the 
flowers  do  in  the  spring." 

"  O,  no,  Sally,  I  tell  you  there 's  nothing 
after  death.  Don't  bother  yourself  with  such 
things,"  and  he  sauntered  down  the  walk, 
and  was  soon  out  of  sight  under  the  arching 
trees.  Just  then  a  shower  of  leaves  came 
pattering  to  the  earth.  Poor  Sally  sighed  as 
she  thought  of  their  swift  decay,  and  won- 
dered if  "young  Mas'r,"  who  was  an  oracle 
in  her  eyes,  were  right,  and  resolved  that  at 
least  she  would  take  his  advice,  and  trouble 
herself  no  more  about  the  matter. 

She  was  now  employed  to  carry  every  day 
to  the  field-hands  their  dinner.  It  was  a  long 
walk  that  she  had  to  take  across  the  pastures, 
with  the  bread  and  meat  and  boiled  rice, 
borne  in  a  large  wooden  bowl  upon  her  head. 
A  fence  lay  in  her  way,  and  one  day,  in 
climbing  it,  the  bowl  was  upset  and  the  pro- 
visions strewn  upon  the  grass.  In  a  tremor 
of  fear  she  replaced  them  in  the  bowl  and 
hastened  on.  Her  delay  was  noticed,  and  the 
overseer  coming  up  to  her,  whip  in  hand, 
demanded  its  cause.  When  he  discovered 
some  grains  of  sand  sticking  to  the  rice,  she 
confessed  the  whole  and  begged  him  to  for- 


32  AUNT   SALLY. 


give  her-.  But  forgiveness  was  not  in  his 
heart,  He  called  her  careless  and  lazy,  and, 
seizing  her  by  the  shoulder,  whipped  her 
severely.  She  went  home  miserable  indeed. 
She  had  nothing  to  turn  to  for  comfort,  and 
her  future — 

"It  rambled  out  in  endless  aisles  of  mist, 
The  farther  still  the  darker." 

Every  night  she  had  to  sit  up  late,  carding 
rolls  for  her  mother  to  spin,  or  spinning  her- 
self under  her  direction.  Her  only  recreation 
was  an  occasional  dance  on  Saturday  evening. 
So  in  dreary  monotony  her  days  went-  on. 


AUNT   SALLY.  33 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE  CAMP  MEETING. 

Out  in  the  woods  where  the  violet  blows, 
And  the  south  wind  opens  the  climbing  rose; 
Where  the  pale  moss  hangs  from  the  lofty  trees, 
Banner-like,  swaying  with  every  breeze; 
Where  the  fleet  deer  bounds  at  the  break  of  day, 
Light  through  the  dewy  paths  away, 
And  the  wild  bird  warbles  his  sweetest  song 
[n  the  quiet  of  shadows  when  eves  are  \ong ; — 
There,  afar  from  the  noisy  street, 
Glad  will  I  hasten  my  God  to  greet, — 
And  breeze  and  blossom,  and  bird  and  tree, 
Gently  shall  speak  of  His  love  to  me. 

A.nd  then,  when  the  pine  trees  sob  and  shiver, 

And  cast  a  gloom  on  the  forest  river, 

I'll  think  of  the  errors  that  darken  my  years, 

And  pray  for  their  pardon  with  bitter  tears; 

And  when  the  sun  through  a  vista  beams, 

And  lightens  the  dimness  with  golden  gleams, 

My  heart  shall  o'erflow  in  a  song  of  praise 

To  Him  who  brightens  the  darkest  days ; 

And  prayer  and  song,  where  the  boughs  are  riven, 

Shall  rise  through  the  placid  blue  to  Heaven! 

Could    Sally   banish    from   her    mind    all 
troublesome  thoughts  and  reproaches  of  con- 
science because  her  young   master  had   bid 
3 


84  AUNT   SALLY. 


her  do  it?     Ah  no!     Her  heari  -,7<*«  full  of 
yearning  and  dissatisfaction. 

When  she  was  twelve  years  old  she  was  a 
tall  and  comely  girl,  and  went  regularly  to 
labor  in  the  field.  The  only  thing  to  which 
she  looked  forward  with  pleasure,  was  the 
dance  at  the  close  of  the  week  ;  and  her  little 
earnings  were  parted  with  to  procure  now 
and  then  a  bit  of  finery  for  this  occasion. 
Sometimes  she  went  to  the  Sunday  prayer 
meeting,  but  was  usually  so  fatigued  that  she 
slept  through  most  of  the  services.  If  an 
alarming  word  fell  upon  her  ear,  and  awaken- 
ed uneasy  thoughts,  she  tried  to  forget  it,  and 
to  persuade  herself  that  she  had  no  cause  for 
fear.  Bat  often,  when  returning  exhausted 
from  the  field  through  the  dim  twilight,  with 
the  fading  sunset  glories  before  her,  and  the 
songs  of  happy  birds  in  her  ear,  she  would 
be  so  weary  of  the  life  she  lived,  and  so  full 
of  vague  longing  for  comfort  and  peace,  that 
she  would  throw  herself  upon  the  ground  in 
uncontrollable  tears.  "Who  was  to  help  her? 
An  ignorant  girl  on  a  lonely  plantation,  away 
from  all  exterior  influences  for  good ;  obliged 
to  toil  from  morning  till  night;  surrounded 
by  those  as  poor  and  simple  as  herself;  with 


AUNT   SALLY.  35 


the  Only  educated  and  refined  person  who 
ever  noticed  her,  the  only  one  to  whom  she 
looked  up  as  to  a  superior  being,  telling  her 
that  there  was  "no  hereafter;"  that  she  had 
only  to  work  by  day  and  sleep  by  night,  till 
at  last  she  would  drop  into  the  ground  and 
crumble  to  dust  like  the  autumn  leaves.  Ah  ! 
there  is  One  who  never  slumbers,  and  the 
poorest  and  most  neglected  child  is  as  dear 
to  Him  as  the  loftiest  king.  He  who  feedeth 
the  .young  ravens  when  they  cry,  and  without 
whose  notice  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground, 
was  even  then  preparing  her  for  rest  and 
joy  through  knowledge  of  Him. 

September  came,  and  with  it  a  series  of 
camp  meetings.  There  was  great  joy  on  the 
plantation  when  it  was  announced  that  one 
was  to  be  held  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
Fayetteville.  It  was  years  since  such  a  thing 
had  happened,  and  all  the  servants  had  the 
promise  of  spending  a  day  at  least  on  the 
(amp-ground.  As  it  was  only  two  miles  dis- 
tant, it  was  easy  for  them  to  go  and  come, 
according  to  the  wish  of  the  master.  Sally 
was  wild  with  delight.  She  should  see  some- 
thing of  the  great  world,  whose  faint  murmur 
sometimes  .  reached    the    plantation       There 


36  AUNT   SALLY. 


would  be  the  handsome  carriages  which  oc- 
casionally drove  up  to  her  mistress'  door, 
and  the  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  their 
servants,  from  all  the  country  round,  and  so 
many  preachers,  and  such  singing — it  was  be- 
wildering to  think  of! 

The  important  week  came  with  cloudless 
skies.  It  was  arranged  that  the  servants 
should  attend  the  meeting  in  turn,  and  Sally 
was  not  to  go  until  the  last  day,  Friday.  Her 
excitement  was  in  no  degree  lessened  by  the 
glowing  accounts  of  those  who  preceded  her. 
She  could  hardly  wait  for  the  time  to  arrive. 
Her  calico  dress  was  smoothed,  a  new  ribbon 
was  tied  over  her  bonnet,  and  at  five  o'clock 
on  Thursday  afternoon  she  was  ready  to  start 
with  the  others,  in  order  to  spend  the  night 
on  the  ground.  How  happy  she  was  to  have 
a  week-time  holiday,  and  to  walk  so  blithe 
and  free  across  the  fields  !  Beneath  this  out- 
ward gladness,  too,  there  was  an  undefined 
hope  that  she  might  obtain  something  to 
satisfy  the  craving  of  her  nature.  With 
snatches  of  hymns  and  merry  words  to  her 
companions,  she  beguiled  the  way.  An  occa- 
sional tree  obstructed  the  view,  but  at  length 
she  began  to  hear  the  faint  hum  of  voices,  and 


AUNT   SALLY.  37 


soon  a  quick  turn  in  the  path  revealed 
the  scene.  A  pleasant  pine-grove  had  been 
chosen  for  the  camp,  and  the  white  tents 
gleamed  here  and  there  through  the  dusky 
boughs.  The  horses  and  carriages  were 
grouped  upon  the  outskirts,  and  in  the 
center  many  hundreds  of  men,  women,  and 
children  were  gathered  round  the  preacher's 
stand,  in  the  red  light  of  the  setting  sun.  A 
solemn  hush  was  over  the  assembly,  and  as 
Sally  drew  nearer,  the  wind  bore  to  her  ear 
the  words  of  the  hymn  with  which  the  ser- 
vices were  concluding: 

"  0  !  every  weary,  -wounded  soul, 
Come  away ; 
'Tis  Jesus  waits  to  make  you  whole, 

Come  away. 
His  precious  blood  was  freely  spilt 
To  cleanse  you  from  your  dreadful  guilt; 
He  says,  'I'll  save  thee  if  thou  wilt, 
Come  away. 
"  The  judgment  day  is  stealing  on, 
Come  away; 
Your  hours  of  hope  will  soon  be  gone, 

Come  away. 
With  Jesus  do  you  wish  to  dwell, 
And  all  his  wondrous  mercy  tell, 
Who  saved  your  soul  from  burning  hell? 
Come  away." 


38  ATJNT    SALLY. 


The  music  and  the  somber  pines  brought 
back  that  other  evening  when  she  had  seen 
her  little  playmate  buried,  and  the  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks  as  she  passed  through 
the  crowd  and  sought  the  tent  belonging  to 
her  master. 

The  wind  sighed  all  night  through  the 
trees,  and  the  stars  shone  overhead.  Sally 
lay  down  to  sleep  upon  the  straw  floor,  sorely 
puzzled  to  reconcile  what  she  heard  about  the 
mysterious  future.  In  her  dreams,  she  thought 
her  young  master  died,  but  came  to  her  again 
in  the  garden-path,  looking  wan  and  wretched, 
and  told  her,  in  a  voice  like  the  wind  in  the 
pines,  that  he  had  been  mistaken;  that  there 
was  a  hereafter,  and  that  she  must  take  warn- 
ing by  his  miserable  fate,  and  prepare  to  meet 
it.  Then  she  thought  she  lay  calmly  on  her 
own  death-bed,  and  all  who  stood  around  re< 
joiced  with  her  that  her  toilsome  days  were 
over,  and  that  she  was  sinking  into  the  sleep 
from  which  no  master's  call  could  rouse  her, 
and  from  which  she  never  could  rise  to  .pain. 

The  sun  shone  brightly  into  the  tent,  and 
she  woke.  The  morning  was  glorious  out 
there  in  the  forest.  The  birds  sang  and  the 
dew   glistened,  as  they  might  have  done   in 


AUNT    SALLY.  39 


Eden  when  the  world  was  ypung.  The  early 
meal  was  soon  despatched,  and  the  tents  put 
in  order,  for  a  new  preacher  was  expected, 
and  the  closing  exercises  were  eagerly  antici- 
pated by  all.  Carriages  began  to  arrive,  and 
by  ten  o'clock  a  vast  congregation  had  assem- 
bled in  the  grove.  Just  in  front  of  the  plat- 
form sat  Sally,  in  a  seat  which  she  had  taken 
pains  to  secure  an  hour  before.  The  people 
were  becoming  impatient,  when  a  murmur 
was  heard,  and  the  expected  preacher,  who 
had  ridden  hastily  from  another  meeting, 
passed  through  the  crowd  and  gained  the 
stand.  He  was  a  tall,  slender  man,  with  an 
impetuous  manner,  and  a  face  which  seemed 
to  say: 

"Be  earnest,  earnest,  earnest; 
Do  what  thou  dost  as  if  the  stake  were  heavon, 
And  that  thy  last  deed  ere  the  judgment  day." 

He  threw  aside  his  traveling  coat,  and 
without  delay  began  to  sing,  in  a  rich,  minor 
voice,  these  words : 

"Hark!  'tis  the  trump  of  judgment 
That  God's  archangel  blows  I 
0,  sinner!  will  you  hasten 
To  Jesus  with  your  woes  ? 


40  AUNT    SALLY. 


For  on  this  little  moment, 

Before  the  hour  of  doom, 
Hang  endless  years  of  glory, 

Or  endless  years  of  gloom. 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  hear  it, 

Perhaps  your  heart  is  cold, 
And  earth's  enticing  pleasures 

Are  all  that  you  behold. 
0,  sinner!  look  and  listen, 

And  loud  for  mercy  cry ; 
For  in  His  sweet  compassion 

The  Savior  passes  by." 

There  was  no  heart  that  was  not  awed  by 
the  solemn  music,  and  every  head  was  bowed, 
as  the  preacher  knelt  to  pray.  Sally  had 
never  heard  such  a  prayer.  It  was  the  out- 
pouring of  a  heart  that  said — "I  will  not  let 
thee  go  except  thou  bless  me,"  me  an»d  all  this 
waiting  congregation.  It  was  talking  with 
God  as  friend  talks  with  friend,  till  Sally 
believed  in  His  existence  with  her  whole  soul, 
and  expected  to  see  Him  appear  in  the  parted 
sky,  and  answer  with  audible  voice  the  strong 
petition.  When  it  was  ended,  the  preacher 
rose,  and,  opening  the  Bible,  read  the  parable 
of  the  tares  of  the  field,  selecting  for  his  text 
the  closing  verses : 

"The  Son  of  man  shall  send  forth  His  an- 


AUNT   SALLY.  41 


gels,  and  they  shall  gather  out  of  His  kingdom 
all  things  that  offend,  and  them  which  do  ini- 
quity, and  shall  cast  them  into  a  furnace  of 
fire;  there  shall  be  wailing  and  gnashing  of 
teeth." 

"Then  shall  the  righteous  shine  forth  as 
the  sun  in  the  kingdom  of  their  Father.  Who 
hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear." 

There  was  no  logical  introduction,  no  dis- 
play of  doctrines,  but  the  truth  was  sent 
straight  home  to  every  hearer  as  if  he,  and 
the  speaker,  and  God  alone  were  present.  In 
simple  words,  and  with  imagery  drawn  from 
the  scenes  about  them,  the  preacher  por- 
trayed their  duty  and  their  danger.  "  This 
morning,"  said  he,  "  as  I  was  riding  through 
the  forest,  I  saw  a  little  bird  trembling  and 
fluttering  in  the  snare  of  a  serpent.  It  would 
speedily  have  been  devoured  had  I  not  sprung 
from  my  horse  and  killed  the  monster.  Ah  ! 
thought  I,  this  is  just  the  way  the  devil  snares 
poor  sinners.  Those  of  you  who  are  in  high 
stations  he  charms  with  riches,  and  honors, 
and  worldly  ease ;  and  *o  those  who  are  poor, 
and  have  little  to  hope  for  in  life,  he  whispers, 
'You  have  no  need  to  trouble  yourselves 
about  doing  right;  you  must  take  what  com- 


42  AUNT    SALLY. 


fort  you  can  now,  and  rely  upon  happiness 
hereafter;'  or  else,  he  tells  you,  'You  may  do 
as  you  please,  for  death  will  end  your  exist- 
ence.' No  matter  what  he  says,  you  are  in 
his  power,  and  he  is  luring  you  on  to  destruc- 
tion, and  unless  you  call  to  Christ  to  vanquish 
him  with  speedy  blows,  he  will  swallow  you 
up  in  infinite  ruin." 

Sometimes  he  rose  to  a  higher,  wilder  strain. 
"  Did  you  ever  think  what  it  would  be  to  be 
cast  out  for  ever  from  God?  If  it  were  for  a 
million  of  years,  you  could  endure  that;  but 
for  ever! — that  is  unbearable.  What  is  hell? 
Why,  it  is  a  great  burning  desert,  over  which 
the  lost  wander  without  shelter,  or  cooling 
draught,  or  momentary  repose,  unable  to  be 
quiet  because  of  the  fires  of  rage  and  remorse 
that  torment  them  from  within.  In  the  cen- 
ter of  this  desert  there  rises  a  mountain,  and 
on  it  is  a  huge  clock.  Once  in  a  thousand 
years  it  strikes  one.  and  as  the  mournful 
sound  vibrates  through  the  burning  air,  the 
wretched  souls  shriek  out  in  echo,  Eternit}' 
just  begun!      Eternity  just  begun!" 

Having,  with  rapid  gesture  and  passionate 
utterance,  pictured  the  condition  of  the  sinner, 
he  began  to   speak  in   gentle  tones  of  "the 


AUNT   SALLY.  43 


Lamb  of  God,  who  taketh  away  the  sins  of 
the  world."     And  he  sang: 

"Whose  is  that  voice  so  kind  and  sweet, 
That  seems  my  inmost  heart  to  greet?  — 
That  whispers,  '  sinner,  come  to  me, 
And  thou  shalt  rest  and  glory  see' — ■ 
'Tis  Jesus. 

"And  can  the  Lord  of  glory  mean 

That  I  upon  his  breast  may  lean? 

Will  He,  so  great  beyond  compare, 

Help  me  my  heavy  load  to  bear? 

Will  Jesus? 

"He  will;   and  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
And  toil  and  burdens  are  no  more, 
How  gladly  from  the  earth  I  '11  rise 
To  endless  bliss  in  Paradise 
With  Jesus." 

Sally  had  listened  with  her  whole  soul  to 
the  preacher,  and  now  these  tender  words 
quite  overpowered  her.  Was  she  not  a 
sinner  ?  Had  she  not  a  heavy  load  to  bear  ? 
Did  she  not  yearn  for  sympathy  and  rest? 
She  looked  up  with  streaming  eyes  and  saw 
just  before  her  her  young  master,  who,  out  of 
idle  curiosity,  had  come  to  the  camp  ground. 
In  spite  of  his  irreligion,  he  was  momentarily 
affected  by  the  scene. 


44  AUNT    SALLY. 


"So  you  like  this,  Sally?" 

"  O  mas'r  !  'pears  like  it  's  what  I 's  been 
wantin'  dis  long  time." 

"  Well,  well,"  he  answered,  as  he  turned 
away,  "get  it  if  you  can." 

There  was  a  fervent  prayer  that  none  there 
assembled  might  be  among  the  lost  in  the 
Great  Day,  and  then  with  shouts,  and  sobs, 
and  fervent  ejaculations,  the  meeting  broke 
up. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  the  servants 
reached  the  plantation.  In  distress  and  un- 
certainty Sally  lay  down  that  night  to  sleep, 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  tried  to  pray. 
So  guilty  did  she  feel  herself,  that  she  would 
not  have  dared  to  do  it,  if  that  gentle  invita- 
tion had  not  rung  in  her  ears — 

"Sinner,  come  to  me, 
And  thou  shalt  rest  and  glory  see." 

In  dreams  she  lived  over  the  excitements 
of  the  day.  She  was  aroused  in  the  morning 
by  the  call  to  labor,  and,  bewildered,  hurried 
to  her  plowing  in  the  field.  She  was  not 
the  only  anxious  one.  Many  of  the  servants 
were  awakened,  and  the  usual  merriment  was 
hushed.  Silently  she  went  her  weary  rounds. 
She  wanted   the   Savior,  but  she  knew  not 


AUNT   SALLY.  45 


how  to  find  Him.  Would  He  accept  one  so 
poor  as  she?  And  if  He  would,  was  she 
willing  to  give  up  all  her  known  sins  and 
follies  for  His  sake?  She  thought  she  was, 
but  she  was  ignorant,  and  had  no  one  to  guide 
her.  She  was  distracted  with  her  emotions. 
Her  brain  seemed  on  fire.  Noontime  came, 
and  she  stopped  her  team  by  the  side  of  the 
field.  The  earth  seemed  to  spin  around  her, 
and  losing  her  consciousness,  she  fell,  as  if  life- 
less, to  the  ground.  Her  companions  gathered 
about  her,  and  bore  her  to  the  nearest  cabin, 
where  she  lay  for  two  days  moveless  and 
insensible.  On  the  third  day  this  trance-like 
state  passed  away,  and  she  revived  and  was 
herself  again.  And  in  her  dream  she  believed 
herself  in  heaven,  and  she  thought  the  Lord 
Jesus  came  to  her  with  the  most  loving 
words,  and  told  her  to  be  His  child,  and 
follow  his  precepts,  and  He  would  be  with 
her  in  every  trial,  and  bring  her  at  last  to 
His  "rest  and  glory."  Then  she  arose  and 
went  cheerfully  about  her  accustomed  labor, 
feeling  that  she  was  no  longer  friendless  and 
alone. 

"So,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  "  dat's   de  way  I 
come  through  in  dis  low  ground  o'  sorrow." 


46  AUNT   SALLY. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  WEDDING. 


The  wind  sang  soft  in  the  sycamore  trees 

As  tender  and  sweet  a  roundelay. 
As  if  it  had  been  some  heaven-born  breeze, 

That  out  of  Eden  had  crept  away. 

And  the  stars  looked  down  with  mildest  eyes, 
As  if,  like  the  wind  so  soft  and  low, 

Their  shining  had  been  o'er  Paradise, 

Which  only  the  souls  of  the  blessed  know. 

No  wail  rang  out  on  the  silent  air, 

No  groan  from  the  earth  beneath  their  feet, 

But,  all  unconscious,  the  hapless  pair 
Went  forth,  the  future  so  dim  to  meet. 

Sally's  real  owner  was  a  maiden  lady  who 
was  deaf  and  dumb.  She  had  nearly  a 
hundred  slaves,  but  as  she  could  not  boar  the 
loneliness  of  the  plantation,  she  hired  them  out 
principally  to  her  brother,  and  spent  her  time 
in  traveling  from  place  to  place.  Sally's 
mother  was  now  taken  to  be  her  waiting- 
maid,  and  accompanied  her  wherever  she 
went.  This  was  a  great  grief  to  Sally,  for  as 
long  as  her  mother  was  there,  there  was 
always  a  degree  of  neatness  and  comfort  and 
enjoyment  even,  in  their  poor  cabin.     What 


AUNT    SALLY.  47 


household  is  there  out  of  which  the  careful, 
provident  mother  could  be  taken,  and  not 
leave  need  and  desolation  behind  her?  The 
mother!  why  the  family  happiness  centers  in 
her;  and  this  poor  slave  woman,  in  her 
narrow  sphere,  was  as  important  as  any  white 
mother  who  graces  an  elegant  house,  and 
counts  her  children  as  her  jewels  !  Somewhat 
stern  she  was,  rarely  talking  much  with  her 
children,  but  training  them  to  the  best  of  her 
ability  in  all  industry  and  honesty.  Every 
moment  she  could  gain  from  labor,  was  spent 
in  spinning,  and  knitting,  and  sewing  to  keep 
them  decently  clothed.  Her  husband  worked 
on  a  plantation  fourteen  miles  away.  Once  a 
month  he  came  to  see  his  family. 

"We  was  allers  glad  to  see  father  come," 
said  Aunt  Sally,  "cause  he  brought  us  'coons 
an'  'possums,  an'  we  had  meat  to  eat.  I 
thought  drefful  hard  o'  mother  for  makin 
me  spin  nights;  but  she  did  n't  say  nothin' 
• — 'peared  like  she  hep'  it  all  in  her  head 
One  day  she  says  to  me,  '  Sally,'  'says  she, 
'you  dun  no  whar  you'll  eat  your  last  pound 
o'  bread;'  but  I  thought  to  be  sure  I  kno' 
I  shall  eat  it  down  in  the  rice-field." 

JNiow  there  was  no  motherly  care,  and  tho 


48  AUNT   SALLY. 


children  were  scattered.  Sally  would  have 
been  quite  inconsolable,  had  it  not  been  for 
her  new-found  trust  and  hope  in  the  Master 
above.  She  was  very  young ;  she  was  very 
ignorant ;  she  had  nothing  to  help  her  to  un- 
derstand the  Gospel;  but  the  Spirit  was 
teaching  her,  and  in  her  poverty  and  loneli- 
ness she  was  learning  those  great  life  lessons 
which,  in  one  way  or  another,  all  must 
apprehend  who  would  enter  the  Kingdom. 
When  she  was  tempted  to  do  wrong  and  to 
despair,  she  thought  of  her  heavenly  vision, 
and  the  Savior  again  stood  near  her,  and  she 
was  comforted,  and  the  temptation  flew  away. 
She  was  fond  of  singing,  and  readily  catching 
the  hymns  which  she  heard,  she  lightened 
thus  many  a  toilsome  hour.  This,  which  she 
learned  from  a  visitor  at  "  the  house,"  was  a 
great  favorite  in  those  days : 

"Jesus  once  was  poor  and  lonely, 

And  a  manger  was  His  bed ; 
He,  the  radiant  King  of  Glory, 
Had  not  where  to  lay  his  head. 

♦**Conie,'  He  says,  'all  ye  that  labor, 
And  ye  heavy  laden,  come; 
I  to  every  soul  am  Neighbor, 
I  will  give  you  welcome  home.' 


AUNT   SALLY.  49 


"Days  to  me  were  dark  and  dreary, 
Lighted  only  from  within; 
Listen,  every  heart  that 's  weary, 
I  will  take  away  your  sin.' 
" '  Fear  not ;  on  this  bosom  tender 
The  disciple  found  repose; 
If  thy  love  to  Me  thou  'It  render, 
I  will  banish  all  thy  woes.' 

"Lord!  I'll  worship  and  adore  Thee, 
Through  my  darkened  earthly  day* ; 
And  in  heaven,  at  last,  before  Thee, 
Sing  in  nobler  notes  Thy  praise." 

A  '.  lange  occurred  in  the  family.  The  old 
mast-?)'*  died,  and  the  slaves  were  transferred 
to  the  rule  of  "young  Mas'r  Harry,"  who  has 
before  been  mentioned.  A  wayward  youth, 
he  had  grown  into  an  intelligent  and  active, 
but  worldly  and  violent  man.  Soon  after  his 
accession  to  power,  he  married  a  lively  young 
lady,  from  one  of  the  aristocratic  families  in 
the  vicinity,  and  made  her  mistress  of  the 
plantation.  Sally  now  went  constantly  to  her 
work  in  the  field,  but  the  lady's  quick  eye 
observed  her,  and  she  soon  singled  her  out 
from  the  rest  as  the  one  upon  whom  to  call 
when  she  needed  any  extra  service  in  the 
house.  Sally  liked  the  change,  and  strove  to 
please  her. 

4 


50  ~  AUNT   SALLY. 


Among  the  servants  who  worked  on  a 
distant  part  of  the  plantation,  was  a  young 
man  named  Abram  Williams.  Sally  was  now 
thirteen  years  old,  and  her  mistress  deeided 
that  she  should  be  married,  and  that  this 
young  man  should  be  her  husband.  Both 
were  her  property,  therefore  the  only  part 
they  had  to  play  was  to  acquiesce  in  the£  ar- 
rangement. It  happened  very  well  in  this 
case,  but  the  same  power  could  have  been 
employed,  had  they  disliked  each  '  other. 
What  think  you  of  a  system  which  gives  such 
unlimited  control,  not  only  over  the  time  and 
labor  of  men  and  women,  but  over  their  most 
sacred  affections?  Sally  had  never  seen  him, 
and  knew  nothing  about  the  matter,  till  one 
day,  when  she  was  in  the  house,  her  mistress 
said — 

"Well,  Sally, you  're  thirteen  years  old,  and 
I  want  you  to  be  married.  There  's  a  young 
man  over  on  the  plantation  who  '11  make  you 
a  good  husband.  He  '11  come  here  soon,  and 
you  '11  see  him,"  and  then  followed  an  enu- 
meration of  his  good  qualities. 

"  Laws,  Missis  !  "  was  the  only  reply  Sally 
could  make.  After  that  she  missed  no  op- 
portunity to   speak   of  him  to   the   simple- 


AUNT   SALLY.  51 


hearted  girl,  till  Sally  said,  "Tears  like  1 
loved  him  'fore  ever  I  saw  him."  True  to 
her  word,  the  mistress  sent  for  him.  They 
were  pleased  with  each  other,  as  she  had 
predicted,  and  as  there  was  no  reason  foi 
delaying  their  union,  it  was  agreed  that  they 
should  be  married  as  soon  as  the  hurry  of  the 
planting  time  was  over.  He  was  a  kind, 
good-hearted  man,  and  Sally  was  happier 
than  she  had  been  for  a  long  time,  in  feeling 
that  she  had  some  one  to  love  who  would  love 
her. 

One  pleasant  Saturday  afternoon,  a  few 
weeks  after  this,  was  fixed  upon  for  the  wed- 
ding. Work  was  closed  early,  so  that  the 
servants  might  participate  in  the  festivities. 
Sally's  scanty  wardrobe  had  been  growing 
less  in  her  careful  mother's  absence,  and  now 
she  had  no  decent  dress  for  the  occasion.  Her 
mistress  produced  from  her  own  stores  an  old 
white  muslin  frock,  and  added  to  it  a  bright- 
ribbon  for  her  waist,  and  a  gauze  handker- 
chief to  tie  around  her  head.  Abram  was 
equally  destitute,  and  his  coarse  field  dress 
was  exchanged  for  the  time  for  some  cast  off 
clothes  of  his  master's,  which  made  him  look, 
so  Sally  thought,  quite  like  a  gentleman.     As 


52  AUNT  SALLY. 


a  special  mark  of  favor,  the  ceremony  was  to 
be  performed  in  the  house.  The  hour  came, 
and  with  their  bridemaid  and  groomsman 
they  stood  up  before  the  colored  Methodist 
preacher  who  was  in  waiting.  He  opened 
the  Bible  and  read  the  account  of  the  mar- 
riage at  Cana.  Sally  had  never  heard  it 
before,  and  the  thought  that  Jesus  had  been 
present  at  an  earthly  wedding,  impressed  her, 
more  than  anything  had  ever  done,  with  the 
importance  of  what  she  was  about  to  do.  JSTo 
one  had  ever  taught  her  the  sacredness  of  the 
marriage  tie.  She  had  heard  it  jested  about, 
and  had  seen  it  lightly  broken,  and  so  it  was 
to  her  rather  an  incident  of  life  than  one  of 
its  solemnities.  But  now  an  awe  crept  over 
her;  she  felt  as  if  God  were  there,  and  re- 
solved, in  heart,  to  do  all  in  her  power  for  her 
new-found  friend.  The  reading  was  followed 
by  a  prayer,  and  then  they  were  pronounced 
husband  and  wife.  There  was  a  momentary 
hush  in  the  room.  All  seemed  touched  by 
the  services  save  the  master,  who  had  conde- 
scended to  grace  them  with  his  presence,  and 
stood  leaning  in  the  door-way,  with  a  satirical 
smile  upon  his  face.  What  were  to  him  the 
words,  "whom  God  hath  joined  together  let 


AUNT   SALLY.  53 


no  man  put  asunder?"  Did  he  not  know 
that  if  for  any  reason  he  wished  to  raise  a 
sum  of  money,  he  should  separate  them,  and 
sell  them,  with  as  little  feeling  as  he  would  a 
horse  or  a  bushel  of  rice?  No  wonder  he 
smiled  and  thought  it  folly!  The  mistress 
rose,  and  going  up  to  the  young  couple,  wished 
them  much  of  happiness  and  prosperity.  She 
was  followed  by  all  the  servants  in  their  turn, 
and  when  the  congratulations  were  over,  she 
led  the  way  to  the  open  air,  where  a  table  was 
set  upon  the  lawn.  It  was  ornamented  with 
a  handsome  cake,  which  she  herself  had  made, 
and  adorned  with  flowers.  Sally,  as  lady  of 
the  day,  was  made  to  sit  down  and  pour  coffee 
for  the  company.  "When  the  repast  was  ended, 
the  lawn  was  quickly  cleared  for  a  dance,  in 
which  the  mistress  insisted  that  the  newly 
married  pair  should  take  the  lead.  Sally  had 
never  danced  since  the  camp-meeting,  but  they 
all  insisted  that  she  would  not  be  properly 
married  unless  she  did  so,  and  she  was  forced 
to  comply.  "Dat  was  de  last  time  I  danced," 
said  she,  in  relating  it;  "'pears  like  'twant 
right,  noway." 

It  was  a  gay  party,  and  as  evening  came 
on,  Sally's  light-heartedness  returned,  and  she 


AUNT   SALLY. 


thought  she  had  never  been  so  happy  in  her 
life.  Ah !  could  she  have  looked  into  the 
future,  and  seen  what  deepest  griefs  would 
come  to  her  through  her  affections,  what 
gloom  would  have  o'ershadowed  her  marriage 
eve !  The  light  wind  in  the  trees  would  have 
changed  to  a  mournful  wail,  and  the  stars 
that  now  seemed  to  smile,  would  have  gazed 
down  upon  her  with  saddest  eyes.  And  the 
birds  singing  good-night  songs  in  the  syca- 
mores above  her — the  happy  birds  who  could 
choose  their  mates  and  live  lovingly  all  the 
summer  through  without  one  fear  of  separa- 
tion, how  would  their  notes  have  pierced  her 
heart,  could  she  but  have  looked  forward ! 

But  no  "coming  event  cast  its  shadow  be- 
fore," and  in  a  merry  mood  the  party  broke 
up,  and  the  servants  sought  their  cabins. 


AUNT   SALLY.  55 


CHAPTER    VI. 

A  slave's  work  and  a  slave's  homb. 

In  her  humble  cot,  the  wife 
Led  a  toilsome,  happy  life. 
Busy,  blithesome  as  a  bee, 
Not  an  idle  hour  had  she. 
When  the  day  began  to  dawn, 
Light  and  active  as  a  fawn, 
Up  she  sprang  from  slumber  sweet, 
The  ascending  sun  to  greet. 
Hers  the  task,  the  pleasant  care, 
Simplest  viands  to  prepare, 
And  the  little  ones  to  guide, 
Nestling  fondly  at  her  side. 
Sweet,  when  toilsome  day  was  over, 
'T  was  to  see  the  husband-lover 
From  his  labor  home  returning, 
Find  the  cheerful  hearth-fire  burning; 
And  his  wife,  in  comely  dress, 
Adding  to  her  loveliness, 
Waiting  with  the  kindest  smile 
All  his  weariness  to  wile. 
When  the  last  "  good-night  *  was  said 
O'er  the  children's  cradle-bed, 
How  they  talked,  the  happy  pair, 
Of  the  lot  they  loved  to  share! 


56  AUNT  SALLY. 


Then,  with  prayer  and  heart-felt  praise 
To  the  God  who  crowned  their  days, 
Laid  them  down  to  hours  of  slumber, 
Such  as  angels  love  to  number. 
Pity  not  a  home  like  this, 
Lowly,  yet  so  rich  in  bliss. 
Pity  those  who  ne'er  can  feel 
They  are  one  for  woe  or  weal; 
Who  must  toil  from  day  to  day, 
'Neath  a  selfish  master's  sway ; 
And  whose  only  joys  arise 
From  the  home  beyond  the  skies ! 

The  Sabbath  morning  rose  clear  out  of  the 
starry  night,  and  with  it  came  the  necessity 
of  Abram's  return  to  his  plantation,  in 
order  to  be  ready  for  Monday's  work.  Sally 
was  distressed  at  this  immediate  separation. 
He  was  much  older  than  herself,  and  her 
young  heart  was  happy  to  have  something  to 
cling  to,  and  to  call  its  own.  She  prepared 
him  the  best  breakfast  in  her  power  from  the 
remnants  of  the  wedding  table,  and  then, 
tying  a  handkerchief  over  her  head,  set  out 
to  accompany  him  as  far  as  she  was  able,  on 
his  homeward  way.  Hand  in  hand  they 
walked  through  the  dewy  fields,  trying  to 
encourage  each  other  with  the  hope  that 
there  would  come  a  time  when  they  should 


AUNT  SALLY.  57 


know  no  separation.  The  merry  birds  flew 
singing  above  them,  the  early  flowers  gave 
out  their  odor,  the  pines  waved  their  branches 
in  the  breeze,  clad  in  the  fresh  green  of  spring. 
Sally  tried  to  -restrain  her  tears,  but  when  they 
reached  the  bounds  of  her  master's  plantation, 
beyond  which  she  could  not  go  without  special 
permission,  they  burst  forth  anew. 

"I  know  I 's  wicked,  Abram,  but  I  jest  wish 
Mas'r  Harry  had  to  go  'way  an'  leave  Missis 
like  you  leave  me;  I  do  !  De  white  folks  ken 
do  jest  as  dey  please,  why  can  't  we?" 

"Don't  cry,  Sally,"  said  kind-hearted 
Abram.  "  I  '11  come  back  an'  see  you  soon 
as  dey  '11  let  me." 

Sally  had  thrown  herself  down  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  pine,  and  sat  for  some  minutes 
quietly.     At  length  she  exclaimed  : 

"I 's  wonderin'  if  de  Lord  knows  how  bad  I 
feels  dis  mornin'.  He  had  such  heaps  o'  trou- 
ble, I  specs  He 's  sorry  for  us.  Come  an'  kneel 
down,  Abram,  an'  I  '11  pray  to  Him  de  bes' 
way  I  ken." 

Together  they  knelt,  and  in  simple,  broken 
words  she  poured  out  her  heart  to  Him  who 
never  slights  the  humblest  cry.  A  strange 
peace  filled  her  soul,  and,  rising,  she  bade  her 


58  AUNT  SALLY. 


husband  a  calm  farewell.  He  was  awed  by 
the  prayer,  for  he  knew  much  less  of  religion 
than  she,  and  promising  to  see  her  on  Monday 
night,  if  possible,  he  turned  away,  and  was 
soon  lost  to  the  gaze  amid  the  somber  pines. 

It  was  high  noon  when  Sally  reached  home. 
As  she  walked  up  the  long  avenue  that  led  to 
the  house,  the  first  object  which  attracted  her 
attention  was  the  carriage  of  her  old  mistress 
before  the  door.  Then  her  mother  had  come 
— her  mother,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for 
months!  She  ran  quickly  to  the  house  to  see 
if  it  were  so,  and  was  told  by  one  of  the  ser- 
vants that  "Ole  Missis"  had  really  returned. 
She  had  been  prevented  from  reaching  home 
the  night  before  by  finding  one  of  the  bridges 
gone  on  the  road  to  Fayetteville,  and  had 
arrived  about  an  hour  previous.  To  Sally's 
eager  inquiries  for  her  mother,  she  answered, 
that,  after  helping  her  tired  mistress  to  bed, 
she  had  left  the  house.  "I  specs  she  's  lookin' 
arter  you,  Sally ;  she  took  on  powerful  when 
she  heard  you  'd  done  got  married." 

Sally  hastened  to  her  mother's  old  cabin, 
which  now  was  hers,  and,  sure  enough,  there 
she  was  sitting  on  the  low  bed.  She  looked 
so  neat  in  her  trim  waiting-maid's  dress,  that 


AUNT  SALLY.       ■  59 


her  daughter,  who  had  approached  unper- 
ceived,  could  not  help  stopping  to  regard  her 
with  admiration.  A  moment,  and  she  was  in 
her  arms. 

"Oh,  mother,  I 's  so  glad  you  Ve  come." 
"Chile,  chile,"  said  the  mother,  while  un- 
wonted tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  "what 
have  ye  done?  De  Lord  knows  I'd  rather 
have  seen  ye  in  yer  grave  than  married. 
S'pose  ye  thought  ye 'd  be  better  off,  but 
chile,  yer  mistaken.  Mebbe  Abram  "Williams 
is  a  good  man,  an '11  be  kind  to  ye;  but  de 
kinder  he  is,  an  de  more  ye  loves  him,  de 
worse  ye  '11  feel  by  an'  by.  Do  n't  I  know  ? 
Did  n't  I  love  your  father  better  than  all  de 
world,  an'  wa'nt  he  allers  kcp'  way  on  de  big 
plantation,  till  now  dey  say  he  's  sold  to  a 
speculator?  An'  den,  when  I  laid  out  to  take 
some  comfort  in  my  chil'n,  an'  worked  so  hard 
to  take  care  of  'em,  wan't  dey  all  scattered  an' 
carried  off,  de  Lord  knows  whar,  an'  you  only 
left  in  de  ole  cabin  when  I  come  home?  Oh, 
Sally,  gettin'  married  's  de  beginnin'  o'  sor- 
row; my  heart  aches  to  think  what  ye  've  got 
to  bar !  De  white  folks  ken  get  married  an' 
live  happy  all  der  days,  but  'pears  like  dere  's 
no  peace  for  us  no  whar." 


60  AUNT   SALLY. 


"Don't  talk  so,  mother.  Abram  says  he'll 
ask  Mas'r  to  let  him  come  an'  live  on  de  place, 
an'  den  we  '11  have  good  times." 

"ISTo,  chile,  it's  no  use.  I  knows.  Dat's 
allers  de  way.  Ole  Missis  goin'  away  to-mor- 
row, an'  I  shall  have  to  leave  ye  to  suffer  as 
I  've  done." 

Poor  mother!  poor  daughter!  Silent  they 
sat  with  their  arms  around  each  other,  till  the 
sycamore  trees  threw  their  evening  shadows 
across  the  door.  They  had  no  plans  to  talk 
over,  no  hopes  to  impart;  for  what  plans  can 
they  form  who  have  no  independent  will? 
and  what  individual  hopes  can  they  cherish 
who  exist  solely  for  the  benefit  of  others  ? 

Sally's  usual  light-heartedness  was  not 
proof  against  her  mother's  despair.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  past  to  which  they  cared 
to  turn,  and  the  anticipated  future  weighed 
them  down  with  pain.  At  length,  the  gath- 
ering twilight  warned  the  mother  that  her 
services  would  be  required  by  her  mistress, 
and  she  rose  to  go. 

"Good  night,  chile;  I  must  go  now.  Missis 
'11  want  me,  an'  I  shan't  see  ye  again.  Ye  '11 
be  gone  to  de  field  'fore  I  ken  come  down  here 
in  de  morn  in'.    Do  de  bes*  ye  hen,  an'  tell 


AUNT   SALLY.  61 


Abram,  yer  mother  says  ye  mus'  be  kind  to 
each  other  while  ye  live  togeder — de  Lord 
knows  how  long  dat  '11  be !  Try  to  please 
young  Mas'r  an'  Missis,  so  's  to  put  off  de  evil 
day — but  it  '11  come,  chile,  it  '11  come,  an'  ye 
mus'  be  spectin'  on't.  'Bove  all,  do  n't  forget 
yer  prars,  'cause  if  de  Lord  aint  yer  friend, 
whar '11  ye  go?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  I 's  allers  a  prayin' — 'pears 
like  it 's  de  greatest  comfort  I's  got." 

"  Well,  chile,  dat 's  right.  May  de  dear 
Lord  bless  ye  !     Far'well." 

At  daybreak  the  next  morning,  Sally  was 
on  her  way  to  the  rice-field.  Her  marriage 
had  come  and  gone  like  any  other  incident  in 
life,  and  now  she  must  resume  her  daily  toil. 
The  hours  went  by  slowly  as  she  dropped  the 
rice  into  the  drills,  and  covered  it  lightly  with 
her  hoe.  She  had  little  disposition  to  talk 
with  her  companions,  and  had  she  desired  it, 
it  would  not  have  been  permitted.  There  was 
a  new  overseer  on  the  plantation  ;  a  harsh, 
unfeeling  man,  who  restricted  the  servants 
in  every  possible  way.  When  the  hot  noon 
came  on,  they  stopped  to  take  their  scanty 
dinner — a  small  piece  of  bread  and  meat,  and 
some  boiled  rice.     At  a  little  distance  was  a 


62  AUNT   SALLY. 


spring  of  clear  cold  water,  to  which  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  go  to  quench  their  thirst. 
But  now  even  this  was  refused,  because  it 
occupied  too  much  time,  and  their  only  drink 
was  the  water  which  ran  along  between  the 
ridges  of  the  rice-field.  The  mid-day  meal 
over,  in  silence  they  returned  to  their  mono- 
tonous tasks.  Had  they  been  free  men  and 
women,  working  for  themselves  and  their 
children,  with  the  stimulating  hope  of  better 
fortune,  which  their  labor  should  achieve, 
they  would  not  have  been  monotonous;  but 
when  they  could  see  nothing  in  the  future 
but  the  same  thankless  toil,  with  the  liability 
of  losing,  at  any  moment,  the  few  domestic 
joys  they  possessed,  it  was  weary  work  to 
scatter  the  grain  and  handle  the  hoe. 

In  the  twilight,  fatigued  and  hopeless,  they 
sought  their  cabins.  Abram  did  not  come,  as 
Sally  had  expected,  and  a  week  went  by 
before  she  saw  him  again.  "Now,"  said  she, 
"I  begun  to  see  de  hardes'  times  I  ever  see 
any  whar  in  my  life."  With  hard  work, 
scanty  food,  a  cruel  overseer,  an  indifferent 
master,  and  a  gay  mistress,  growing  every 
day  more  careless  and  forgetful  of  her  de- 
pendents, what  chance  had  she  for  comfort? 


AUNT    SALLY.  63 


A  year  of  hardship  passed  away,  and 
Sally's  son  Isaac  was  born.  She  loved  him 
with  a  mother's  tenderness,  but  not  with  a 
mother's  joy ;  for,  young  as  she  was,  she  had 
seen  so  much  of  trial  and  privation  that  she 
could  not  regard  life  to  one  in  her  condition 
as  a  blessing.  When  she  Was  able  to  return 
to  her  work,  she  could  not  bear  to  leave  her 
baby  behind  her  to  be  neglected,  so  she  tied 
him  into  her  dress,  and  carried  him  with  her 
to  the  field.  He  was  a  sturdy  little  fellow, 
and  grew  apace,  in  spite  of  all  his  disadvan- 
tages. Once  a  month  his  father  came  to  see 
him,  giving  what  help  and  encouragement  he 
could  to  the  mother,  and  bringing  her  his 
little  earnings,  to  assist  her  in  providing  for 
their  child.  Sprrowfal  meetings  and  partings 
they  were,  and  yet  pleasant,  because  all  they 
knew  of  affection  and  sympathy  was  in 
them. 

Two  years  more,  during  which  nothing 
occurred  to  vary  the  dreary  round  of  their 
existence,  and  another  son  was  born,  whom 
they  called  Daniel.  It  was  the  season  of  the 
year  when  all  the  fieldhands  were  engaged  in 
plowing,  and  when  he  was  three  weeks  old, 
Sally  took  her  place  with  the  rest.     Now  she 


64  AUNT   SALLY. 


had  two  children  whom  she  would  not  leave 
behind,  so  one  was  placed  securely  in  her 
bosom,  and  the  other  fastened  to  the  skirt  of 
her  dress,  which  was  rolled  up  in  front  to 
make  a  resting  place  for  him.  Thus  burden- 
ed, she  worked  on,  never  losing  her  rounds, 
for  a  mother  is  a  mother  every  where,  in  the 
rice  fields  of  Carolina,  or  amid  northern 
snows.  It  was  not  unusual  for  the  women  to 
take  their  children  to  the  field,  but  they  were 
accustomed  to  lay  them  down  upon  the  grass 
by  the  fences.  Sally  would  not  do  this,  for 
upon  a  neighboring  plantation  a  child  so  left 
had  been  strangled  by  a  snake,  and  was 
found  quite  dead  when  the  work  was  over. 
How  many  prayers  did  Sally  send  up  to 
heaven  in  these  dismal  days!  Were  they  not 
registered  there? 

The  master  grew  daily  more  reckless  ana 
extravagant  for  himself,  and  more  indifferent 
to  the  comfort  of  his  slaves.  "He  fed  us 
mos'ly  on  skim  milk  an'  Irish  potaters,"  said 
Aunt  Sally,  "an'  peared  like  sometimes  we 
should  starve."  On  one  of  the  adjoining 
plantations  there  was  a  kind  and  liberal 
master  who  gave  his  servants  plenty  or  pro- 
visions.     There   is   a   strong    community   of 


AUNT   SALLY.  65 


feeling  among  the  slaves,  and  they  are  always 
ready  to  assist  those  who  are  less  fortunate 
than  themselves.  Sally  knew  that  she  should 
not  appeal  in  vain  to  her  neighbors,  so  many 
a  night  after  all  the  household  were  in  bed, 
she  would  take  the  horse  which  she  used  in 
plowing,  and  ride  stealthily  over  to  their  hos- 
pitable cabins,  sure  always  to  get  some  dried 
meat,  or  a  bag  of  meal,  from  the  generous 
occupants.  Then  hastening  back,  in  silence 
and  watchfulness,  she  would  cook  a  little  for 
herself  and  her  children.  In  ways  like  this 
she  eked  out  their  scanty  fare,  always 
anxious,  and  fearful  of  being  discovered. 

During  this  miserable  time  another  child 
was  born  to  her,  but  its  little  life  was  soon 
closed;  and  at  evening,  after  working  hours 
were  over,  it  was  buried  in  a  rough  box  out 
among  the  pines.  Sally  did  not  mourn  for  it ; 
she  was  glad  it  had  escaped  the  misery  of 
their  earthly  lot.  No  stone  marked  its  grave, 
but  the  mother  knew  the  spot,  and  sometimes 
stole  out  there  at  night  to  pray.  She  was 
always  comforted,  for  God  seemed  near  to  her 
there,  and  she  fancied  the  wind  in  the  trees 
above  her  was  singing  her  child's  lullaby,  and 
hushing  it  to  sweet  repose. 


66  AUNT   SALLY. 


CHAPTER  VIT. 

A   HUSBAND    SOLD. 

See!  the  moon  is  over  the  hill; 
Hark!  the  wind  in  the  trees  is  still; 
Only  the  stars  shine  out  on  high, 
In  the  azure  depths  of  the  midnight  sky. 
The  master  sleeps  in  his  downy  bed, 
And  watch  and  care  for  a  while  have  fled, 
Wake,  my  children  !  and  we  '11  away, 
Ere  in  the. east  is  the  dawn  of  day. 
"Whither?     Alas!  I  know  not  whither 
This  side  of  the  cold  and  fatal  River ! 
The  earth  has  many  a  pleasant  dell 
Where  ye  and  I  might  be  sheltered  well, 
But  ne'er  secure  on  the  land  or  sea 
Can  the  slave  from  his  white  pursuers  be! 
God  of  mercy,  and  truth,  and  right, 
Guide  our  steps  through  the  silent  night ! 

The'  master  grew  every  day  more  reckless 
in  his  expenditures,  and  more  unreasonable 
in  his  demands  upon  his  servants.  Among 
the  household  duties  which  Sally  occasionally 
performed,  was  that  of  seeing  that  the  milk 
was  properly  strained  and  taken  care  of. 
One  morning  her  mistress  was  out  of  humor, 
and  imagining  that  Sally  had  not  taken 
pains  with  her  work,  she  complained  to  her 
husband. 


AUNT   SALLY.  67 


"Look  here,  Sally,"  said  he,  "do  you  put 
the  milk  in  a  pan  that  is  n't  washed?" 

"Oh,  no,  mas'r,  I  takes  partikler  pains  to 
have  it  clean." 

"Do  you  mean  to  contradict  your  mis- 
tress?" 

"  I  did  n't,  mas'r." 

"You  did  n't,  did  you?     I'll  see!" 

Seizing  her  by  the  arm,  he  whipped  her 
severely,  and  at  length  desisting  from  very 
weariness,  he  called  out,  "  Now  see  if  you  '11 
tell  the  truth  the  next  time." 

Half  crazed  with  pain  and  terror,  she  crept 
away  to  the  field.  She  dared  not  neglect  her 
tasks,  and  all  through  that  wretched  day  she 
followed  the  plow,  smarting  from  the  blows. 
It  was  the  crisis  of  her  fate.  Year  after  year 
she  had  suffered  on,  and  now  she  felt  that  she 
could  endure  no  longer.  With  her  buoyant 
nature,  she  would  not  have  despaired  could 
she  have  seen  one  distant  gleam  of  hope,  but 
matters  were  daily  getting  worse  on  the  plan- 
tation, and  she  knew  not  where  to  turn  for 
light. 

Revolving  these  things  in  her  mind  as  she 
went  her  weary  rounds,  she  came  to  the  des- 
perate resolution  of  running  away,  and  with 


68  AUNT   SALLY. 


uplifted  heart,  she  asked  God  to  pardon  her 
if  she  was  wrong,  and  to  help  her  if  she  was 
right.  Communicating  to  no  one  her  inten- 
tion, she  sought  her  cabin  at  the  usual  hour, 
and  procuring  her  children's  supper,  eating 
none  herself,  so  oppressed  was  she  by  her 
pain,  and  by  the  thought  of  what  she  was 
about  to  do.  She  dared  not  leave  the  grounds 
till  all  was  quiet,  and  while  the  children  slept 
upon  the  floor,  she  busied  herself  in  collecting 
their  li'ttle  clothing,  and  tying  it  up  in  a 
bundle,  which  she  could  conveniently  carry. 
The  early  moon  was  shining  in  the  sky,  and 
she  must  wait  till  it  went  down.  As  she  sat 
there  in  silence,  she  wondered  if  she  were 
about  to  commit  a  sin,  for  she  had  been 
trained  to  such  implicit  obedience  to  her 
master,  that  she  hardly  dared  think  of  resist- 
ing his  will.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs,  and  of  voices,  coming  up  the 
walk.  She  remembered  that  her  master  had 
ridden  over  to  Fayetteville  in  the  morning, 
and  it  was  his  voice,  and  that  of  the  overseer, 
to  which  she  listened. 

"  Here  's  that  girl,  Sally,  Mr.    Green,  you 
must  look  after  her  a  little.    She  's  never  been 


AUNT   SALLY.  69 


fairly  broken  in  yet.     I  made  a  beginning, 
this  morning.     You  must  train  her." 

"Ah!  leave  me  alone  for  that,  sir.  I'll 
fetch  her  up  to  the  mark.  I  '11  give  her  a 
bigger  task  to-morrow,  and  if  she  do  n't  do 
it,  she  '11  see  what  she  '11  get." 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Green,  I  don't  care  how 
much  you  get  out  of  'em.  Things  are  going 
to  ruin,  and  I  must  make  more  money  in 
some  way." 

The  voices  died  away,  and  with  them  Sal- 
ly's irresolution.  She  would  go  at  all  risks. 
The  moon  went  down,  and  all  was  still. 
Taking  the  sleeping  Daniel  in  her  arms,  she 
gently  shook  the  older  boy,  saying,  "Isaac, 
Isaac,  wake  up  chile.  Do  n't  you  want  to  go 
an'  see  yer  father?"  He  opened  his  eyes 
at  the  words,  and  accustomed  to  obey  his 
mother  in  all  things,  took  her  hand  as  she 
passed  out — out  into  the  night  so  pure  and 
calm,  with  the  holy  stars  above  her,  and  the 
dewy  earth  beneath  her  feet.  Abram  was 
then  at  work  on  a  plantation  a  few  miles 
away,  and  thither  she  directed  her  steps. 
Avoiding  the  roads  lest  she  should  be  dis- 
covered by  some  belated  traveler,  she  hur- 
ried on  through   the   fields,   keeping,  where 


70  AUNT   SALLY. 


it  was  possible,  under  the  deep  shadow  of 
trees  and  fences,  Now  and  then  the  cattle 
stirring  in  the  pastures,  or  the  neigh  of  a 
horse  startled  by  her  footsteps,  would  make 
her  heart  beat  quick,  and  she  would  stop  to 
listen;  but  no  harm  came  to  her,  and  carry- 
ing one,  and  sometimes  both,  of  the  children, 
and  hushing  their  questioning  cries,  she  at 
length  reached  her  destination.  Going  softly 
up  to  the  door  of  Abram's  cabin,  she  entered 
and  roused  him  from  his  heavy  slumber.  He 
was  terrified  to  see  her  there  with  her  chil- 
dren, but  soon  understood  wherefore  she  had 
come. 

"There's  no  time  to  lose,  Abram.  I  heerd 
that  Aunt  Marthy  was  a-takin'  in  washin'  in 
Fayetteville,  an'  I  know  she  '11  let  me  an'  de 
chil'n  stay  with  her." 

Breaking  in  two  a  piece  of  hoe-cake  which 
she  had  saved  from  her  supper,  she  gave  it 
to  the  boys,  and  rising  from  the  low  bed  '; 
where  she  had  seated  herself  for  a  moment, 
she  took  Daniel  again  in  her  arms,  saying  to 
her  husband,  "You  mus'  tote  Isaac,  Abram, 
he's  done  tired  out,  poor  chile." 

It  was  past  midnight.  Fayetteville  was 
four  miles  distant,  and  Abram  must  returc 


AUNT    SALLY.  71 


>V  his  mornipg's  work,  so  they  hurried  on. 
fie  knew  the  road,  and  as  it  passed  through 
h  quiet  neighborhood,  he  was  not  afraid  to 
Keep  it.  They  talked  little,  for  fear  of  being 
■»n  some  way  overheard,  but  arranged  that 
Sally  and  the  boys  should  keep  hid  for  a 
while  with  "Aunt  Marthy,"  and  that  Abram 
should  see  them  as  often  as  possible.  Sally 
knew  not  what  was  before  her,  but  in  spite 
of  the  haste  and  the  danger,  it  was  delightful 
to  be  walking  so  far  from  the  plantation  and 
away  from  the  overseer's  eye.  Stiff  and  sore 
Prom  the  whipping  she  had  received,  her 
heart  was  yet  lighter  than  it  had  been  for 
many  a  day.  The  dawn  had  not  yet  begun 
to  glimmer  in  the  east  when  they  reached  the 
town  and  sought  the  narrow  street  and  hum- 
Die  cottage  of  "Aunt  Marthy."  A  good  old 
creature  she  was ;  owned  by  a  man  in  Fay- 
«itteville,  but  hiring  her  time  and  supporting 
herself  and  her  children  by  washing.  She 
received  Sally  with  open  arms,  without  man- 
ifesting much  surprise  at  her  appearance.  She 
aad  had  the  experience  of  many  years,  and 
she  knew  too  well  the  chances  and  changes 
in  the  life  of  a  slave  to  be  astonished  by 
;hem.     "  Laws,    chile,    I 's   been  through   it 


72  AUNT   SALLY. 


all,  an'  I  knows  ye  can't  bear  it  unless  ye 
loves  de  Lord." 

While  it  was  yet  dark  Abram  bid  them 
good-bye  and  hastened  away.  It  was  now 
October,  and  from  this  time  until  New  Year's, 
she  lived  quietly  with  Marthy,  assisting  her 
daily  toil.  The  boys  were  so  young  that 
they  would  hardly  be  recognized,  so  they 
played  about  the  street  with  the  other  chil* 
dren,  but  Sally  never  went  out  except  at 
night;  and  then  cautiously,  and  for  short  dis- 
tances. During  this  time  Abram  was  sold  on 
to  a  plantation  near  Fayetteville,  and  he  often 
stole  in  at  evening  to  see  his  wife.  He  took 
pains  to  hear  about  her  master,  and  learned 
from  one  of  the  servants  that  he  was  fearfully 
angry  when  he  found  Sally  had  gone,  and 
threatened  to  kill  her  if  he  ever  saw  her 
again ;  also,  that  his  slaves  were  not  to  work 
at  home  any  more,  but  were  all  to  be  hired 
out  at  New  Year's.  Sally  knew  she  could 
not  long  remain  undetected  where  she  was, 
and  believing  that  her  master  would  not  touch 
her  on  account  of  his  own  interest,  she  re- 
solved to  go  boldly  when  the  day  came  and 
hire  herself  out  with  the  rest. 

The  important  morning  arrived,  and  Sally 


AUNT   SALLY.  73 


took  her  children  and  went  out  to  a  field  on 
the  old  plantation  where  she  had  heard  the 
business  of  the  day  would  be  transacted. 
What  fervent  prayers  did  her  heart  send  up 
as  she  walked  along !  She  believed  they  were 
heard,  and  her  step  was  firmer  and  her  cour- 
age stronger  as  she  reached  the  ground.  Her 
old  companions  were  already  assembled  there, 
and  a  crowd  of  the  neighboring  planters  were 
standing  about,  talking  of  the  price  and  capa- 
city of  those  they  wished  to  secure.  Among 
them  was  her  master.  He  saw  her,  and  mut- 
tering something  between  his  teeth,  appeared 
as  if  he  would  confront  her  as  she  advanced, 
but  the  gentleman  with  whom  he  was  speak- 
ing, said  something  in  a  dissuasive  voice,  and 
he  turned  away.  Sally's  heart  was  full  of 
thanksgiving  as  she  took  her  place  with  the 
rest.  She  believed  the  Lord  was  with  her  as 
he  was  with  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den.  The 
sales  went  on,  and  her  turn  at  last  arriving, 
she  was  hired  by  a  citizen  of  Fayetteville,  an 
easy,  compassionate  man,  who  had  heard  of 
the  unjust  treatment  she  had  received.  A 
new  hope  dawned  upon  her.  Perhaps  he 
would  let  her  hire  her  time  as  her  aunt  did. 
She  ventured  to  propose  it  to   him,  and   he 


74  AUNT   SALLY. 


agreed  that  for  six  dollars  a  month,  regularly 
paid  to  him,  she  should  be  her  own  mistress, 
and  do  what  she  pleased.  The  moment  that 
she  was  free  to  act  for  herself,  with  what 
spirit  and  energy  did  she  take  hold  of  life. 
She  had  always  had  a  natural  fondness  and 
aptitude  for  cooking,  and  now  she  resolved  to 
rent  a  small  house,  and  commence  the  sale  of 
cakes  and  beer  of  her  own  baking  and  brew- 
ing. Before  a  week  had  passed  she  had  rented 
a  little  tenement  of  two  rooms,  and  having 
procured  a  barrel  of  flour  and  other  necessa- 
ries in  advance,  she  was  ready  to  sell  to  any 
one  who  would  patronize  her  humble  store. 
Her  children  were  both  with  her  at  first. 
When  she  had  time,  she  took  in  washing,  and 
then  she  accustomed  them  to  help  her  to  beat 
the  clothes.  In  a  month  she  had  not  only 
paid  for  the  flour,  but  she  had  also  given  to 
her  new  master  the  first  installment  of  hire- 
money.  Very  judiciously  she  made  her  small 
purchases.  She  would  watch  the  market- 
wagons  as  they  came  in  from  the  country, 
and  often  buy  her  provisions  to  great  advan- 
tage. Every  morning  she  carried  a  gallon  of 
hot  coffee  to  the  market  for  sale.  The  gen- 
tlemen soon  learned  to  know  her,  and  would 


AUNT   SALLY.  75 


buy  a  cup,  sometimes  throwing  her  fifty  cents 
in  return.  She  had  never  dreamed  of  having 
so  much  money  as  she  now  earned.  She 
bought  comfortable  clothes  for  herself  and 
her  children,  and  obtained,  from  time  to  time, 
little  articles  of  furniture  for  her  house.  And 
when,  at  the  end  of  the  year  the  same  ar- 
rangement was  made  with  her  master  for  a 
much  longer  time,  her  heart  overflowed  with 
gratitude  to  God,  and  she  resolved  more  and 
more  to  dedicate  herself  to  Him.  What  was 
it  that  made  her  so  happy?  The  privilege  of 
working  every  moment  for  the  support  of 
herself  and  her  children,  and  of  paying  out 
of  her  earnings  six  dollars  every  month  to 
her  master  ?  Yerily  happiness  is  not  absolute, 
but  relative,  in  this  world. 

Abram  still  worked  in  the  vicinity,  and 
often  came  to  see  her  and  the  children.  He 
was  a  kind  and  affectionate  man,  but  he  had 
not  Sally's  strength  of  character  and  firm- 
ness of  principle,  and  he  was  easily  led  astray. 
He  had  lately  fallen  into  a  habit  of  gambling, 
at  which  she  was  exceedingly  distressed  and 
alarmed.  She  knew  from  young  "  Mas'r  Har- 
ry," the  ruin  to  which  it  led,  and  while  she 
begged  him  to  abandon  it,  she  loved  him  so 


76  AUNT    SALLY. 


well  that  she  would  sometimes  give  him 
money  when  he  came  and  told  her  of  hia 
losses.  At  length  his  master  discovered  his 
visits  to  the  gambling-room.  He  was  not 
grieved  at  his  sin,  but  angry  at  his  disobe- 
dience; and,  going  to  Sally,  in  a  dreadful  rage, 
he  told  her  that,  if  her  husband  ever  gambled 
again,  he  would  put  him  into  jail,  and  he 
never  should  come  out  from  there  as  his  ser- 
vant. This  frightened  Abram,  and  for  a  yeai 
he  kept  away.  But  one  night  the  old  tempta- 
tion returned  again,  and  he  went.  His  mastei 
heard  of  it,  and  threw  him  into  jail  the  fol 
lowing  day,  as  he  had  threatened.  Sending 
for  Sally,  he  told  her  what  he  had  done,  and 
that  he  should  sell  him  to  New  Orleans. 

"  Oh,  Mas'r,  de  Lord  bless  ye,  won't  ye  try 
him  once  more?  He  was  allers  such  a  good 
man,  an'  so  kind  to  me  an'  the  chil'n  !  " 

"Now,  Sally,  you  may  just  stop  your  cry- 
ing around  here,  for  as  sure  as  there  's  a  God 
in  heaven,  he  never  shall  come  out  mine." 

There  was  no  hope,  then.  He  must  be  sold, 
and  selling  to  New  Orleans  was  to  her  like 
death.  How  many  whom  she  had  known  had 
gone  the  same  way  and  never  been  heard  of 


AUNT   SALLY.  77 


more!     She  would  rather  have  seen  him   in 
his  coffin. 

It  was  late  when  she  reached  home,  too 
late  to  go  to  the  jail,  and  the  night  must  wear 
away  in  prayers  and  tears.  She  was  up  with 
the  dawn,  and  baking  some  fresh  biscuit,  and 
making  a  pot  of  her  nicest  coffee,  she  took 
them  to  the  jail,  and  sat  down  upon  the  stone 
steps  until  the  doors  should  be  opened.  Her 
mother's  words  came  to  her  mind,  and  she 
wept  bitterly.  .  Her  "  evil  day"  had  indeed 
come.  The  passers  by  looked  coldly  upon 
her.  It  was  a  common  thing  to  see  poor 
slave-women  sitting,  in  tears,  upon  the  steps 
of  the  jail.  At  length  she  was  admitted. 
Abram  was  quite  overcome,  when  he  saw 
her,  with  remorse  for  his  fault  and  grief  at 
their  separation.  For  they  had  loved  each 
other,  even  as  people  do  whose  faces  are  fair ! 
Sally  strove  with  her  stronger  heart  to  sus- 
tain him  and  to  lift  his  thoughts  to  God.  But 
sorrow  would  have  its  way,  and  from  nine 
o'clock  till  one,  they  sat  weeping  and  holding 
each  other's  hands,  as  if  it  were  indeed  the 
death  hour.  At  length  the  rude  voice  of  the 
jailer  was  heard  ordering  her  away.     They 


78  AUNT  SALLY. 


clasped  each  other  convulsively  for  a  moment, 
but  the  husband  could  not  speak.  Amid  her 
sobs,  Sally  exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  Abram,  far'well !  Eemember  de  L(  rd ! 
Eemember  de  Lord!  I  shall  pray  for  ye,  ye 
poor  soul !     Far'well,  far'well ! " 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

A    NEW  HUSBAND CHILDREN    SOLD. 

On  the  brink  of  a  flowery  meadow, 

A  lamb  by  its  mother  lay, 
All  in  the  golden  sunshine 

Sleeping  the  noon  away. 
• 
The  mother  watches  her  darling, 

And  opens  her  half-shut  eye, 
"When  over  the  flowery  meadow 
The  wind  goes  whispering  by. 

What  moves  in  the  trees  behind  them? 

'T  is  a  wolf,  all  gaunt  and  grim ! 
He  longs  to  tear  in  his  hungry  jaws 

The  lamb  from  limb  to  limb. 

One  spring,  and  his  prey  he  seizes, 

And  into  the  wood  so  cold, 
With  savage  delight  he  bears  it 

Away  from  the  shepherd's  fold. 


AUNT  SALLY.  79 


And  the  mother  may  watch  by  the  forest 
Till  the  meadow  is  white  with  snow, 

But  never  from  out  its  shadow 
Her  darling  again  will  go ! 

"  Oh,"  said  Aunt  Sally,  "  dat  was  de  dreffulest 
hour  I  ever  see  in  my  life,  when  I  turned  my 
back  on  de  jail.  Teared  like  dere  want  no- 
thin  lef  in  de  world,  an'  when  I  tried  to  pray, 
dere  want  no  God  to  hear  me.  I  did  n't  mind 
my  work  dat  day,  but  jest  lay  on  de  bed,  cry- 
in'  an'  groanin'  as  if  my  heart  would  break, 
an'  wishin'  we  was  all  dead  an'  out  o'  trouble. 
De  chil'n,  poor  things,  tried  to  comfort  me, 
but  I  thought,  to  be  sure,  dere  's  no  comfort  for 
me  when  dey  sold  my  husband  ! 

"By-an'-by,  when  it  was  dark,  Aunt  Mar- 
thy  cum  to  see  me.  She  heerd  dat  Abram 
was  sold,  an'  she  know'd  well  enough  how 
bad  I  'd  feel.  Wal,  she  sot  down  on  de  bed, 
an'  ses  she,  '  Sally,  I 's  cum  to  pray  wid  ye, 
'cause  I  know  it 's  de  only  thing  dat  '11  do 
ye  any  good.'  I  thought  to  myself,  dere's  no 
use  a  prayin'.  Did  n't  I  beg  de  Lord  to  let 
my  husband  stay,  an'  want  he  sold  all  de 
same  as  if  I  had  n't  asked  him  ?  But  I  did  'nt 
speak,  an'  so  she  knelt  down  an'  begun.  At 
first  I  did  'nt  pay  no  'tention  to  what  she  said, 


80  AUNT  SALLY. 


but  she  kep'  on,  an  'peared  as  like  Lord 
Jesus  was  right  in  de  room,  an'  she  was 
talkin'  to  Him.  She  told  Him  how  'flicted  I 
was,  an'  how  I  was  almos'  discouraged,  an' 
begged  Him  to  stan'  by  me,  an'  to  be  better 
to  me  dan  de  best  husband  in  de  world.  All 
at  once  I  thought  p'r'aps  dis  was  de  cross  I'd 
got  to  carry  for  Jesus,  an'  den  'peared  like  a 
great  burden  rolled  off  my  heart,  an'  I  could 
see  my  way  clear  through  to  heaven.  Instead 
o'  grievin',  I  wanted  to  praise  de  Lord  for  His 
mercy.  Dere  want  no  trouble  any  more  ;  only 
de  Lord,  de  Lord  everywhar.  When  she  'd 
done  prayin'  I  got  up  an'  begun  to  sing  dis 
hymn.  I  'd  often  sung  it  afore  in  de  meetins, 
but  I  never  know'd  what  it  meant  till  den  : 

"  'If  there's  a  heavy  cross  to  bear, 
Oh,  Jesus !  Master !  show  me  where ! 
And  all  for  tender  love  of  Thee, 
I  '11  bear  it  till  it  makes  me  free. 

" '  Free  from  the  faults  I  long  have  known ; 
Free  from  the  sins  I  dare  not  own ; 
Free  from  each  care  the  world  has  given, 
To  keep  my  soul  from  Thee  and  heaven. 

" '  And  when  I  reach  that  glorious  place, 
And  gaze  with  rapture  on  Thy  face, 
Dear  Jesus !  every  cross  shall  be 
A  crown  of  joy  for  Thee  and  me! " 


AUNT   SALLY.  81 


The  next  morning  Sail/  resumed  her  usual 
duties,  and  was  to  be  seen  in  market  and  at 
home  attending  to  her  customers.  The  ec- 
stacy  of  the  evening  was  gone,  but  something 
of  "the  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all  un- 
derstanding," remained.  She  could  not  think 
of  her  husband  without  tears,  and  for  six 
months  her  health  suffered  from  the  shock 
she  had  received,  yet  Jesus  seemed  nearer  to 
her  than  ever  before,  and  she  was  consoled 
by  the  thought  that  He  was  a  friend  on  whom 
she  could  rely,  at  morning  and  noon  and 
evening.  That  sale  was  truly  like  death,  for 
she  never  saw  or  heard  from  Abram  again. 
When  Isaac  was  twelve  years  old,  he  would 
have  been  taken  from  her  and  put  to  service, 
but  he  was  such  a  comfort  to  her,  and  daily 
grew  so  helpful,  that  she  could  not  bear  to 
part  with  him,  so  for  two  dollars  a  month  she 
hired  him  for  two  years  of  his  master.  Her 
kind  Fayetteville  master  was  pleased  with 
him,  because  he  was  so  bright  and  active,  and 
offered  to  teach  him  to  read  if  his  mother 
would  purchase  the  necessary  books.  Thin 
she  gladly  did,  and  as  he  learned  rapidly, 
(albeit  there  was  no  white  blood  in  his  veins,) 

she  soon  had  the  delight  of  hearing  the  Bible 
"6 


82  AUNT   SALLY. 


read  by  her  son.  It  was  the  highest  pleasure 
she  had  ever  known,  to  sit  down  with  him  in 
her  neat  little  room,  when  the  work  of  the 
day  was  over,  and  hear  some  chapter  from 
the  life  of  Christ,  or  some  thrilling  Old  Testa 
nient  story.  One  night,  when  he  had  been 
reading  to  her,  slowly  and  carefully,  for  half 
an  hour,  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 

"Laws,  Isaac,  I  never  'spected  to  see  de 
like  o'  dis — to  hear  you  readin  de  Bible  like 
de  white  folks.  'Pears  like  de  Lord  's  been 
so  good  to  ye,  I  hopes  ye  '11  do  all  ye  ken  to. 
serve  Him." 

"  I 's  been  thinkin'  o'  dat  dis  long  time, 
mother;  I  b'lieve  de  Lord's  got  something 
for  me  to  do." 

"  Yes,  chile,  we  's  all  got  something  to  do, 
an'  we  must  be  willin'  to  do  whatever  de  Lord 
gives  us.  I 's  laid  awake  many  a  night, 
thinkin  o'  dis  yer  thing,  an'  prayin'  de  Lord 
to  help  me.  When  yer  father  was  sold,  I 
thought  der  want  nothin'  more  for  me,  but 
de  Lord  He  brought  me  through,  an'  I's 
made  up  my  mind,  'taint  no  use  calcuiatin' 
what  He'll  do.  We  mus'  try  to  do  right 
whai  he  puts  us,  an'  den,  if  we  's  prepared 
for  a  better  place,  ho  '11  show  it  to  us.    1 


AUNT   SALLY.  83 


specs  ye  '11  be  a  poor  slave  all  yer  days, 
Isaac,  but  if  de  blessed  Jesus  is  yer  master, 
an'  ye  bar  de  cross  for  his  sake,  He  '11  make 
ye  free  at  last  in  de  Kingdom  !  " 

The  tears  stood  in  the  boy's  eyes  as  he 
listened  to  his  mother's  words,  and  he  resolved 
in  his  heart  to  do  the  best  he  could  in  life, 
and  to  trust  the  Lord  for  all. 

When  Abram  had  been  gone  four  years, 
Sally's  master  began  to  look  for  another  hus- 
band to  fill  his  place.  Sally  had  seen  mar- 
riages so  lightly  made  and  broken,  that  it 
was  to  her  a  matter  of  course.  Her  respect- 
ability and  thrift  had  procured  her  many 
admirers,  and  as  her  master  deigned  to  con- 
sult her  on  the  subject,  she  chose  from  among 
them  a  free  colored  man  named  Eeggs,  be- 
cause she  thought  he  could  never  be  sold 
away  from  her.  He  bore  a  very  good  charac- 
ter, excepting  that  he  was  somewhat  addicted 
to  intemperance,  but  he  rarely  became  intoxi- 
cated, or  treated  her  with  anything  but  kind- 
ness. He  worked  at  his  trade  in  town,  and 
Sally  continued  her  sale  of  cakes  and  beer. 
She  did  not  love  him  as  she  had  done  her 
first  husband,  yet  they  lived  quietly  together, 
and,  on  the  whole,  happily.    Isaac  and  Daniel 


84  AUNT  SALLY. 


were  now  away  with  separate  masters,  and 
Sally  would  have  missed  them  exceedingly 
had  not  their  places  been  partly  supplied  by 
the  birth  of  a  little  boy,  whom  she  called 
Lewis.  Other  children  she  had  who  died  in 
their  infancy,  so  that  this  little  fellow,  who 
was  sprightly  and  affectionate,  was  doubly 
dear  to  her.  She  was  now  living  in  compara- 
tive ease  and  independence.  Little  by  little 
she  had  added  necessary  articles  of  furniture 
to  her  house,  and  of  dress  to  her  wardrobe. 
Her  two  rooms,  with  the  porch  adjoining, 
were  always  neat  and  in  order.  Her  baking 
and  washing  were  dispatched  in  the  morning, 
and  then,  with  clean  apron,  and  nicely  folded 
handkerchief  about  her  head,  she  was  ready 
to  attend  to  her  customers,  or  to  do  any  little 
job  of  sewing  which  she  had  taken  in,  for  to 
her  knowledge  of  cooking  and  housework  she 
added  no  small  skill  as  a  dressmaker.  She 
was  able  now  to  hire  a  girl  to  help  her  in  the 
house,  and  when  it  became  known  how  good 
a  seamstress  she  was,  she  had  much  work 
brought  her  by  the  ladies  in  the  vicinity.  In 
her  prosperity  Sally  did  not  forget  the  Lord, 
Most  fervently  did  she  thank  Him  every  day 
for  His  mercy.    Naturally  hopeful  and  buoy- 


AUNT   SALLY.  85 


ant,  she  enjoyed  the  happy  present,  without 
daring  or  wishing  to  anticipate*  the  future. 
She  went  regularly  to  church  on  the  Sabbath, 
persuading  her  husband,  when  he  could,  to 
accompany  her;  and  when  Isaac  and  Daniel 
were  permitted  to  visit  her  and  to  go  with 
her  also  to  the  meeting,  her  heart  overflowed 
with  thankfulness  to  Grod.  Sometimes  they 
were  allowed  to  go  home  with  her  to  spend 
the  Sabbath  evening.  This  was  indeed  de- 
lightful. They  must  all  go  into  the  best 
room,  which  was  her  pride,  with  its  high 
feather  bed,  covered  with  a  bright  patch- 
work quilt,  its  rocking-chair,  its  little  table 
by  the  window,  with  the  glass  hanging  above 
it,  and  its  chest  of  drawers,  which  contained 
all  the  best  articles  of  the  family  attire.  Then 
she  would  bring  out  a  plate  of  her  choicest 
cakes,  and  treat  them  each  to  a  cup  of  coffee, 
or  a  mug  of  her  own  innocent  beer.  These 
joyful  evenings  were  always  concluded  by 
Isaac's  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  his 
mother's  offering  up  a  grateful  prayer. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  -pause  over  this 
happy  time  in  Sally's  life;  this  little  gleam 
of  sunshine  in  her  stormy  sky,  but  events 
hurried  on,  and  our  narrative  mxm     ollow. 


86  AUNT   SALLY. 


Sally's  old  mistress  on  the  plantation  had 
been  gradually  declining  in  health  for  years, 
and  now  news  came  that  she  was  dead.  Her 
slaves  were  divided  between  her  brothers  and 
their  children,  and  Sally  and  her  sons  fell  to 
one  of  the  nephews,  a  dissipated  young  man, 
who  had  wasted  all  his  property,  and  had 
been  waiting  impatiently  for  his  old  aunt's 
death,  that  he  might  receive  his  portion  of 
her  estate.  He  wanted  to  convert  some  of 
his  share  into  ready  money,  so  Isaac  and 
Daniel  and  Lewis  were  taken  and  sold  in 
Fayetteville  at  a  public  auction.  Daniel  was 
bought  by  a  planter  far  up  the  country; 
Isaac,  by  a  gentleman  who  lived  a  little  way 
out  of  the  town  ;  and  Lewis,  poor  little  Lewis, 
his  mother's  darling,  with  his  merry  face  and 
sportive  ways, — a  speculator  from  Alabama, 
saw  him,  and  purchased  him  to  go  with  a 
"lot"  he  had  in  waiting,  to  that  seemingly 
distant  and  unknown  land.  Sally's  grief  was 
great  at  parting  from  Daniel,  whom  she  might 
never  see  again,  for,  although  not  so  intel1'- 
gent  as  her  older  son,  he  had  always  bee;* 
affectionate  and  obedient  to  her.  She  took 
leave  of  Isaac  with  more  hope,  for  he  was  not 
to  bo  so  far  removed-    but  when  it  came  to 


AUNT   SALLY.  87 


Lewis,  who  was   immediately  placed  in  his 
purchaser's  traveling  wagon,  she  was  broken 
down  with  anguish.     The  curse  of  servitude 
was  upon  her,  although  she  had  married  a 
free   man.     She  was   still   a   slave,  and    her 
children  were  slaves,  and   only  death   could 
free  them.    Her  distress  was  increased  by  the 
rage  and  despair  of  her  husband,  for  he  was 
as  fond  a  father  as  she  was  a  mother.     She 
saw  the  money  paid  down  for  her  boy;  she 
heard  him  calling  good-by  to  her  out  of  the 
cart,  and,  half  frantic,  she  ran  to  him,  and 
catching  him  in  her  arms,  held  him  tightly, 
as  if  they  could  never  be  parted.     He  was 
only  three  years  old,  just  learning  to  talk, 
and  every  hour  developing  some  new  charm 
in  his  mother's  eyes.     He  did  not  understand 
her  grief,  and  she  would  not  sadden  his  little 
heart  by  telling  him  he  would  never  see  her 
more.     Pleased  at  the  prospect  of  a  ride  in 
a  wagon,  he  laughed  and  danced  about,  un- 
conscious of  fear  or  sorrow.     Sally  gave  him 
a  little  ginger-cake,  saying,  as  she  put  it  into 
his  hand,  "  Now,  Lewis,  break  it  in  two,  an' 
give  mammy  a  piece." 

"No,"  said   he,  "didn't  ye  jes'  gin  it  to 
mo?"    The  poor  mother  burst  into  tears,  and 


88  AUNT   SALLY. 


the  child,  thinking  it  was  all  because  she 
wanted  the  cake,  exclaimed,  "Here,  mammy, 
I  will  gin  ye  a  piece,"'  and  then  her  husband 
came  and  took  her  away.  With  streaming 
eyes  she  watched  the  wagon  till  it  disappeared, 
and  then,  as  she  turned  homeward,  if  she  had 
been  familiar  with  the  Scriptures,  she  would 
have  cried  out  in  anguish,  "All  Thy  waves 
and  Thy  billows  are  gone  over  me." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    HOME    DESOLATE THE  MOTHER  SOLD  TOO. 

The  house  is  desolate  and  lone, 

My  precious  boy,  now  thou  art  gone. 

I  look  upon  thy  empty  bed, 

And  every  joy  from  me  hast  fled ; . 

I  watch  to  hear  thee  on  the  stair, 

But  all  is  still — thou  art  not  there ; 

And  then  my  heavy  heart  sinks  down, 

And  sees  the  cross,  but  not  the  crown. 

I  should  be  glad,  my  boy,  to  die 
Beneath  this  Carolina  sky; 
Yet  oft  I  fear  my  fate  will  be  * 

O'er  hill  and  plain  to  follow  thee. 
God  help  me !  help  us  every  one, 
Through  the  dear  love  of  Christ  his  Son  I 


AUNT  SALLY.  89 


It  was  almost  dark  when  Sally  reached  her 
own  door.  Her  husband  had  left  her  on  the 
way,  and  gone  into  a  low  drinking  saloon,  to 
drown  his  grief  and  anger  in  intoxication. 
Some  of  her  neighbors  and  acquaintances 
were  waiting  for  her  return,  and,  going  into 
the  house  with  her,  tried  to  cheer  her  heart. 
But  what  can  comfort  a  mother  when  she  is 
bereft  of  her  children  ?  If  your  three  only 
boys  should  be  stolen  from  you  in  one  day, 
without  hope  of  recovery,  could  any  earthly 
friend  console  you?  Sally's  sons  were  as 
much  to  her  as  yours  are  to  you,  and  the 
words  of  her  visitors  fell  unheeded  upon  her 
ear.  At  length,  seeing  that  their  efforts  were 
of  no  avail,  they  went  out  silently,  and  she 
was  left  alone.  Alone !  Yes,  it  was  such 
loneliness  as  only  they  can  understand,  who 
have  had  a  similar  trial.  For  a  while,  she 
sat  immovable,  and,  as  if  stupefied  by  her 
grief,  and  then  she  arose,  and  opening  her 
little  bureau,  began  to  look  over  the  clothes 
that  had  belonged  to  Lewis;  every  article  of 
which  she  had  labored  har^yjo  procure,  and 
had  fitted  and  made  for  hinr  with  a  mother's 
pride  and  pleasure.  The  little  frocks  and 
aprons  were  taken  up  and  laid   aside  again, 


90  AUNT   SALLY. 


but  when  she  came  to  the  tiny  cap,  with  the 
jaunty  tassel  upon  one  side,  in  which  he  had 
looked  so  smart  the  Sunday  before,  and  saw 
lying  beneath  it  Isaac's  precious  Bible,  which 
was  always  in  her  keeping,  and  a  new  shirt, 
partly  finished,  which  she  had  intended  as  a 
present  to  Daniel,  she  burst  into  tears,  and, 
shutting  the  drawer,  threw  herself  in  agony 
upon  the  bed.  She  tried  to  pray,  but  she 
could  only  exclaim,  amid  her  sobs,  "Oh, 
Lord,  remember  Lewis !  Dear  Lord,  take 
care  o'  my  poor  chil'n  ! " 

At  length  she  fell  asleep.  And  in  her 
dreams  she  thought  she  followed  the  wagon 
which  contained  her  child,  on  and  on,  over 
plains  and  through  forests,  he  all  the  while 
laughing  and  clapping  his  hands,  till  at  length 
night  overtook  them,  and  the  driver  called 
out  to  her  that  she  must  return.  And  as, 
with  a  last  despairing  look,  she  began  to 
retrace  her  steps,  she  thought  her  little  Lewis 
became  suddenly  conscious  that  she  was  leav- 
ing him,  and  screamed  out,  "  Oh,  mammy, 
take  me,  take  me  !  "  She  would  have  rushed 
to  him  and  borne  him  off  in  her  arms,  but 
his  purchaser  caught  him  fiercely  back,  and 
putting  his  hand  over  his  mouth  to  stop  his 


AUNT   SALLY.  91 


cries,  drove  on  faster  throigh  the  black  con- 
cealing pines.  She  awoks  in  terror,  which 
was  succeeded  by  joy,  at  finding  it  was  only 
a  dream.  Lewis  had  always  slept  in  a  little 
trundle  bed  at  her  side,  and,  for  the  moment, 
forgetting  what  had  happened,  and  wishing 
to  re-assure  herself,  she  called  out,  in  the 
manner  she  was  wont  to  awaken  him,  "  Lewis  I 
Lewis  !  "  But  the  room  was  dark  and  still ; 
and  then  the  truth,  more  terrible  than  any 
dream,  flashed  upon  her  mind,  and  she  sank 
down  in  hopeless  grief  upon  the  bed. 

But  the  morning  stays  not  for  any  sorrow, 
and  with  its  coming  Sally  roused  herself  to 
attend  to  her  work,  for  the  girl  whom  she 
had  hired  to  help  her  was  away  for  a  few 
days,  and  this  was  one  of  her  busiest  seasons. 
She  went  about  her  tasks  mechanically,  for, 
to  her  mother's  heart,  the  incitement  to  labor 
was  at  an  end  when  there  was  no  one  to  be 
benefited  but  herself.  Weeks  went  by,  dur- 
ing which  she  went  her  daily  rounds  in  a  kind 
of  stupor,  and  of  which  afterward  she  could 
remember  nothing.  Her  flesh  wasted  away, 
and  her  step,  which  was  once  so  elastic,  grew 
slow  and  heavy.  She  would  often  go  to  the 
drawer  and  take  out  Isaac's  Bible,  and  weep 


92  AUNT    SALLY. 


over  it,  and  wish  she  could  read  its  comfort- 
ing words,  but  it  was  a  sealed  book  to  her, 
and  carefully  she  would  return  it  to  its  place. 
She  knew  many  verses  by  heart,  and  these 
she  would  often  repeat  to  herself.  Among 
these  was,  "Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor 
and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest."  Yes,  she  would  say,  "  Dat  's  what  I 
wants,  Lord — rest;  I's  allers  been  seekin'  for 
it,  but,  Lord,  I  can't  find  it."  Yet  in.  one 
way  she  did  find  rest.  She  had  received  into 
her  inmost  heart  by  a  living  faith,  the  story  of 
Christ's  sufferings  and  death,  and  she  felt  that, 
in  some  way,  every  trial  she  had,  if  borne  for 
His  sake,  brought  her  nearer  to  Him  and 
heaven.  Losing  his  son  had  made  her  hus- 
band reckless  and  neglectful  of  his  business, 
and  more  and  more  given  to  intemperate 
habits.  This  would  have  seemed  to  her  a 
great  affliction,  had  she  not  had  a  greater  one 
constantly  to  bear.  Another  trial  she  had, 
too,  in  the  jealousy  of  her  neighbors,  both 
blacks  and  whites.  It  was  rare  for  a  slave 
woman  to  be  so  wel]  situated  to  show  what 
she  could  do  for  herself  as  Sally  was.  The 
constant  increase  of  her  customers,  and  her 
popularity  with   them,   her    tidy   house,  her 


AUNT    SALLY.  93 


neat  dress,  and  her  self-relying,  independent 
manner,  called  forth  many  envious  and  ma- 
licious remarks.  Often,  at  the  market,  she 
would  hear  such  things  as  this  from  the  white 
people  around  her:  "Wonder  if  Sally's  mas- 
ter 's  always  going  to  let  her  live  in  this  way. 
She 's  getting  altogether  too  smart  for  a 
nigger.  We  shan't  know  who  's  to  rule  by- 
and-by."  These  unkind  words  went  to  her 
heart,  but  she  took  no  outward  notice  of  them, 
thinking  it  wisest  to  keep  on  her  quiet  way. 
Sometimes  the  bitter  thought  would  come  into 
her  mind,  "Why  should  I  lose  husband  and 
children,  and  be  blamed  and  disliked  for  my 
honest  efforts  to  earn  a  comfortable  living?" 
And  then  she  would  still  such  repinings,  and 
say,  "  It 's  de  cross  de  Lord  lays  upon  me, 
an'  I  '11  bar  it  for  His  sake." 

One  morning,  some  four  months  after  Lewis 
was  taken  from  her,  as  she  was  busy  in  the 
market,  some  one  called  out  to  her — ■ 

"Eh,  Sally,  is  that  you  !  " 

She  turned  quickly  round,  and  saw,  in  the 
rough-looking  man  before  her,  the  purchaser 
of  Lewis. 

"That  boy,  Lewis,  that  I  took  out  in  the 
last  lot,  belonged  to  you,  did  n't  he  ?  " 


94  AUNT   SALLY. 


Eagerly  she  answered — "Yes,  mas'r,  he's 
de  youngest  of  my  chil'en.  Mebbe  ye  '11  tell 
me  whar  he  is?" 

"  Wal,  he  's  down  in  Claiborne,  on  the  Ala- 
bama river.  There  was  a  gentleman  there 
took  a  mighty  fancy  to  him,  and  paid  a  big 
price  for  him,  that  he  did.  He 's  a  smart 
little  chap.  Should  n't  a  minded  keeping  him 
myself." 

"He  loved  his  mammy  so,  mas'r!  Didn't 
he  take  on  when  it  come  night?" 

"  In  course  he  did.  Such  young  uns  allers 
do.  It's  nat'ral,  you  know.  He  screamed 
and  cried  for  two  or  three  nights,  and  I  said 
nothing,  'cause  you  see,  I  thought  he  'd  get 
over  it  himself.  But  he  did  n't,  and  at  last 
I  got  tired  of  it,  you  know,  and  I  just  took 
him  and  give  him  a  sound  whipping,  and  ho 
was  still  as  a  mouse  all  the  rest  of  the  way. 
That 's  the  way  to  manage  children." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  "  was  all  Sally  could  say. 

"Wal,  aft  I  was  going  on  to  tell  you,  I  come 
through  Claiborne  on  my  way  back  here  after 
another  lot;  prime  ones,  too,  some  on  'em  is; 
first  rate  bargains ;  and  as  I  passed  by  the 
gentleman's  house,  there  I  saw  Lewis,  with 
half  a  dozen  other  young  uns,  playing  about 


AUNT    SALLY.  95 


the  yard.  I  stopped  my  horse,  and  called  out 
to  him,  '  Lewis  !  Lewis ! '  Then  he  ran  down 
the  walk,  and,  says  I,  '  I'm  going  back  to  Fay- 
etteville,  where  your  mammy  lives;  what  shall 
I  tell  her  ? '  He  know'd  me  well  enough,  and 
he  thought  a  minute,  and  then,  says  he,  '  Tell 
her  to  send  me  some  cakes;'  and  I  promised 
him  I  would.  Ef  I  was  in  your  place,  too, 
I  'd  send  him  some  clothes.  He  looked  kind 
o'  ragged/' 

"  When  are  ye  gwine  back,  mas'r  ?  " 

u  Wal,  I  reckon  about  the  first  o'  the  week. 
One  of  my  gals  has  run  away,  and  I  do  n't 
mean  to  start  'till  I  get  her.  Strange  they 
can't  take  it  peaceable  like,  and  not  give  folks 
so  much  trouble.  So  you  jest  fix  up  your 
bundle,  and  leave  it  down  to  Miller's  store, 
and,  if  't  aint  too  large,  I  '11  take  it." 

"Thank'ee  mas'r,  thank'ee,"  said  Sally, 
"p'raps  ye '11  have  a  drink  o'  coffee,"  and 
she  handed  him  a  smoking  bowl  full,  which 
he  swallowed  with  great  satisfaction. 

"  La,  now,"  said  he,  "  that 's  the  real  article. 
I  'm  sorry  you  lost  your  boy,  but  then  we 
must  expect  such  things  in  this  world  of  trial," 
and  with  this  comforting  reflection  which  the 
steaming  coffee  had   inspired,  he  wiped  his 


'96  AUNT    SALLY. 


mouth  with  his  yellow  silk  handkerchief,  and 
passed  on. 

It  was  now  Saturday  morning,  and  when 
her  duties  were  over,  Sally  hastened  home, 
and,  making  a  small  bag  of  strong  calico,  she 
filled  it  with  Lewis'  favorite  hard  ginger- 
cakes  and  crackers.  Then,  going  to  the 
drawer  which  contained  his  clothes,  she  took 
out  article  after  article,  and  folding  them,  laid 
them  together,  till  she  came  to  the  pretty  cap, 
over  which  she  hesitated,  saying,  "  I  specs 
he  '11  never  go  to  meetin' ;  dere  's  no  use 
sendin'  it ;  but  in  a  moment  she  exclaimed, 
"Yes,  I  will.  Ley  shall  see  how  well  off  he 
was  when  his  mammy  had  him."  So  they 
were  all  tied  up  together  in  a  neat  parcel, 
and  taken  to  the  appointed  place,  Sally  only 
reserving  for  herself,  as  a  memento,  the  little 
torn  apron  he  had  worn  the  morning  before 
he  went  away.  When  she  entered  the  store, 
the  speculator  himself  chanced  to  be  there, 
and,  giving  him  the  bundle,  she  said,  "Will 
you  please  to  tell  Lewis  his  mammy  says  he 
mus'  be  a  good  boy,  an'  not  grieve  for  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  trouble  yourself  to  send 
that  message.  "S'pose  he's  forgot  by  this 
time  that  he  ever   had   a  mother."     A  low 


AUNT   SALLY.  .  97 


groan  was  Sally's  only  answer  as  she  turned 
away. 

Sally  now  began  to  wonder  that  she  was 
left  so  long  undisturbed  by  her  new  master, 
whom  she  knew  to  be  extravagant  and  reck- 
less. A  fear  sometimes  entered  her  heart  that 
she  might  be  suddenly  seized  and  sold  as  her 
children  had  been,  but  she  tried  to  be  hopeful, 
and  to  banish  it  for  the  sake  of  her  husband. 
Alas  !  her  fears  were  not  unfounded. 

One  morning,  about  a  year  after  Lewis  was 
sold,  she  had  been  to  market  as  usual,  and  had 
purchased  a  barrel  of  flour,  which  was  stand- 
ing outside  of  the  door.  Two  gentlemen 
entered,  and  the  girl  who  helped  her  being 
busy,  and  supposing  they  wished  to  buy 
cakes,  called  to  her  in  the  best  room  to  come 
and  wait  on  them.  She  went  out  quickly, 
but  as  they  were  looking  about  without  speak- 
ing, she  took  a  chair  and  sat  down,  waiting 
for  their  orders.  At  length  one  of  them  got 
up  and  began  to  walk  around.  An  undefined 
terror  seized  her.  Was  she  sold  ?  Suddenly 
he  stopped  before  her,  and  looking  her  full  iu 
the  face,  said — 

"  Sally,  your  We  mine." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  whar  do  ye  live?" 


98  AUNT    SALLY. 


"I  live  down  in  Alabama." 

"Oh,  then,"  said  Salty,  "I  couldn't  cry. 
'Peared  like  I  was  stunned,  an'  the  life  died 
out  o'  me.  I  did  jes'  as  he  told  me  without 
savin'  a  word.  'You  must  come  along  now,' 
said  he,  '  and  I  '11  see  about  your  things  after- 
ward.' So  he  took  hold  o'  my  arm  an'  led 
me  to  the  door,  an'  I  walked  along  with  him 
like  I  was  in  a  dream,  till  we  got  to  de  slave- 
pen,  an'  den  he  pushed  me  in,  an'  locked  me 
up  wid  de  rest." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   SLAVE-PEN. 
It  is  not  dying  that  I  fear ; 

Lord !  it  were  sweet  to  die, 
And  safe  from  all  that  wounds  me  here, 

Within  thine  arms  to  lie. 
But  0 !  'tis  living  that  I  dread, 

When  friends  and  love  are  gone, 
And  not  a  star  is  overhead 

To  shine  my  night  upon. 

And  yet,  if  thou  would  'st  have  me  live, 
My  Master  and  my  Friend, 

Unmurmuring  days  to  Thoe  I'll  give, 
For  thou  the  cross  dost  send. 


AUNT   SALLY.  99 


As  the  door  closed  upon  her  purchaser,  and 
the  terrible  reality  of  her  fate  burst  upon  her, 
Sally's  unnatural  calmness  deserted  her.  and 
she  sank  to  the  ground  in  a  swoon.  The 
slave-pen  was  an  enclosure  of  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred feet  square,  surrounded  by  a  high  board 
fence,  and  entered  by  a  small  gate  or  door. 
In  it,  some  thirty  men,  women,  and  children — 
the  men  chained  together,  two  by  two — were 
waiting  their  departure  to  the  far  south-west. 
A  dreadful  scene  it  was.  Some  were  cursing 
and  swearing,  and  some  were  rending  the  air 
with  their  cries.  There  were  wives  torn  from 
their  husbands,  and  husbands  from  their  wives, 
and  children  snatched  from  their  parents,  and 
parents  bereft  of  their  children.  Without, 
many  of  their  friends  and  acquaintances 
were  gathered,  talking  to  them  through  the 
bars,  some  in  anger  and  some  in  grief,  which 
could  find  no  words  for  its  expression.  There 
were  two  speculators  in  company ;  Sally's 
purchaser,  who  attended  to  outside  matters, 
and  who  was  naturally  a  kind-hearted  man, 
and  another,  who  was  wholly  sordid  and  un- 
feeling, and  whose  business  it  was  to  stay  with 
the  slaves,  and  to  act  as  overseer,  keeping 
them   in   order   as   he   saw   fit.     He  walked 


100  AUNT   SALLY. 


among  them,  flourishing  a  whip  in  his  hand, 
listening  to  their  conversation,  and  watching 
narrowly  any  seeming  attempt  to  escape. 

It  was  a  bright  day  in  June,  and  the  coun- 
try was  in  its  summer  prime.  All  about  them 
were  cultivated  fields,  and  away  in  the  dis- 
tance the  dark  pine  forests  stretched  to  the 
horizon.  The  boughs  were  full  of  singing 
birds,  and  every  breeze  was  odorous  of  roses 
and  jessamines,  but  in  that  little  spot  there 
was  anguish  enough  to  shade  the  brightness 
of  the  world,  and  to  make  all  the  angels 
weep  as  they  looked  down  out  of  the  clear 
heaven ! 

In  the  loud  talking  and  confusion  of  the 
place,  Sally's  entrance  was  not  noticed.  She 
had  lain  for  some  time  unconscious,  when  the 
overseer  observed  her,  and  brandishing  his 
whip  about  her  head,  giving  her  at  the  same 
time  a  slight  kick  with  his  heavy  foot,  he 
called  out,  in  a  rough  voice — 

"  Come,  wake  up,  old  gal !  Do  n't  want  no 
fainting  fits  here  ;  all  my  folks  must  be  lively." 

So  rudely  roused,  Sally  made  an  effort  to 
sit  up  and  look  about  her,  and  as  she  did  so, 
he  turned  away,  and  was  soon  occupied  in  the 
distant  corner.     Poor  Sally,  her  heart  sick- 


AUNT   SALLY.  101 


ened  at  the  scene  before  her,  and  she  bowed 
her  head  upon  her  hands.  Now  and  then 
some  fearful  oath  came  to  her  ear,  and  anon  a 
piteous  exclamation.  She  thought  over  all 
her  life,  from  her  childhood  to  this  bitterest 
hour;  a  gloomy  reach,  with  only  here  and 
there  an  illumined  portion,  like  a  November's 
day  in  northern  latitudes,  when  black  clouds 
hurry  across  the  sky,  and  sunny  gleams  ap- 
pear only  now  and  then  between  the  shadows 
of  the  howling  winds.  Would  the  night 
never  come?  She  longed  for  death,  and  if,  in 
her  woeful  state,  she  could  have  prayed,  she 
would  have  besought  the  Lord  that  it  might 
not  tarry.  She  was  roused  from  her  reverie 
by  the  entrance  of  her  purchaser.  Seeing  her 
sitting  motionless  where  he  had  left  her,  he 
exclaimed,  "  Come,  Sally,  there  's  no  use  in 
grieving — what 's  done  can  't  be  helped.  I  '11 
take  you  back  to  the  house  now  to  pick  up 
your  things." 

At  these  words,  all  the  realities  of  her  situa- 
tion came  vividly  to  her  mind.  She  thought 
of  her  husband  and  of  Isaac,  and  of  her  old 
mother,  who  was  now  owned  by  a  gentleman 
a  little  way  out  of  the  town,  and  with  a  "  Yes, 
mas'r,"    she   arose   and  followed   him.      On 


102  AUNT  SALLY. 


through  the  streets  they  passed,  and  by  the 
very  market  where  she  had  that  morning 
made  her  purchases  with  so  much  of  inde- 
pendence and  satisfaction.  What  a  change' 
had  a  few  hours  wrought.  Now  she  was  weak 
and  dizzy,  and  led  by  a  man  who  had  over 
her  absolute  control.  The  real  reason  of  her 
sale  was  that  her  success  and  popularity  had 
awakened  so  much  envy  and  jealousy,  that  it 
was  deemed  expedient  she  should  be  removed. 
Alabama  was  then  what  Texas  is  now.  Her 
peace  and  comfort  were  nothing  compared  to 
the  safety  of  the  cherished  institution  of 
slavery,  and  so  they  were  sacrificed  without 
one  pang  of  remorse,  as  they  have  been  thou- 
sands of  times  since  her  day.  She  was  well 
known  in  Fayetteville,  and  the  rumor  of  her 
sale  spread  rapidly  through  the  town.  As 
they  passed  on,  such  remarks  as  this  fell  upon 
her  ear: 

"  Good  enough  for  her." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  she  's  held  her  head  rather  too 

high- 

"  Ah  !  that 's  the  way  to  take  down  your 
smart  niggers.  Eeckon  she  wont  be  quite  so 
much  of  a  lady  down  in  the  Alabama  clear- 
ings." 


AUNT   SALLY.  103 


But  they  were  not  all  ill-natured  remarks 
which  she  heard.  In  one  group  was  a  poor 
white  woman  with  whom  she  had  often  shared 
her  simple  meal,  and  who  was  now  protesting 
against  her  fate. 

"  I  tell  you  it 's  a  mean  shame.  There 
aint  a  better  woman  in  Fayetteville,  white 
or  black.  Did  n't  she  help  me  take  care  of 
Jimmy  all  through  the  fever  last  fall,  and 
bring  me  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  bit  of  bread 
whenever  he  was  too  sick  for  me  to  go  to  my 
day's  work  ?  I  say  we  'd  any  of  us  better  be 
sold  than  Sally.  Any  how,  I  believe  she  's 
got  the  Lord  on  her  side." 

These  kind  words  touched  Sally's  heart, 
and  for  the  first  time  that  day  the  tears  came 
to  her  eyes.  Was  the  Lord  on  her  side?  In 
the  depths  of  her  heart  she  prayed  that  He 
would  not  desert  her  in  this  most  desperate 
hour.  "  Oh !  Mas'r,"  she  cried,  when  she 
could  speak,  "  I's  willin'  to  go  with  ye  if  it 's 
de  Lord's  will,  but  I'se  got  a  son,  my  oldest 
chile,  out  on  de  Eidgely  plantation,  an'  a  little 
ways  from  him  my  ole  mother,  an'  her  I  haint 
seen  dis  three  years — if  I  could  only  bid  'em 
good  bye  !" 

"  Well,  Sally,  if  you  '11  be  peaceable  and  not 


104  AUNT   SALLY. 


make  me  any  trouble,  I  '11  send  for  'em  to 
come  and  see  you  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Thank'ee,  Mas'r,"  was  her  grateful  reply. 

When  she  reached  her  own  house,  how 
deserted  did  everything  already  look.  The 
landlord  had  been  there,  and  taken  her  newly- 
purchased  barrel  of  flour  for  rent ;  the  young 
girl  who  assisted  her  had  fled  in  affright,  and 
the  rooms  were  in  confusion.  The  speculator 
kept  guard  at  the  door,  and  called  out  to  her 
to  make  haste  and  get  ready  her  things. 
How  hard  it  would  have  been  to  her  to  leave 
the  various  articles  of  household  and  person- 
al comfort,  which  by  hard  labor  she  had 
gathered  together,  if  her  thoughts  had  not 
been  engrossed  by  greater  sorrows.  Only  a 
limited  amount  of  baggage  could  be  carried 
on  the  long  journey,  and  Sally  was  restricted 
to  one  trunk  and  a  bag,  a  bed  and  a  tub  and 
a  pail.  The  three  last  were  speedily  put  in 
readiness,  and  then  she  prepared  to  fill  the 
trunk  and  the  bag  with  her  clothing.  One 
thing  after  another  was  taken  from  the  draw- 
ers and  folded  away,  and  when  she  came  to 
Isaac's  Bible,  she  placed  it  in  the  bag,  that 
she  might  give  it  to  him  on  the  morrow. 
While  thus  employed,  her  husband  suddenly 


AUNT   SALLY.  105 


entered  the  house.  He  was  away  at  his  work 
when  the  news  of  her  sale  reached  him,  and, 
almost  beside  himself,  he  had  hurried  home 
to  see  her  once  more.  Superior  to  him  in 
thought  and  energy,  he  regarded  her  with  a 
kind  of  veneration,  and  was  weak  as  a  child 
at  the  thought  of  losing  her. 

"  Oh,  Sally,  ye  shan't  go.  I  can  't  live  with- 
out ye.  I  '11  tell  dat  ar  cursed  speculator 
to" 

"  Do  n't  go  on  so,  Lewis,  I  can't  bar  it ;  I 
specs  it 's  de  Lord  dat  sends  him." 

"  Sally,  ye  know  I's  got  some  money  dat  I's 
been  savin',  an'  I  know  where  there  's  them 
that  '11  lend  me  some  more.  I  '11  buy  ye  of 
him ; "  and  he  went  to  the  door  and  offered 
the  man  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  the 
price  he  had  paid  for  his  wife;  and  when 
this  was  refused,  three  hundred  dollars  was 
proffered,  with  the  promise  that  the  money 
should  be  paid  to  him  that  very  evening. 

"  There  's  no  use  talking  about  it,"  said  the 
speculator,  "  money  can't  alter  this  transac- 
tion. Sally  's  going  to  Alabama,  and  you  may 
as  well  be  quiet  about  it." 

"Oh,  Lord  Jesus!"    gasped  Sally,  as  the 


106  AUNT  SALLY. 


words  reached  her  through  the  open  door, 
"  go  thar  with  me  ! " 

Half  frantic,  her  husband  came  back,  and 
now  raving,  and  now  embracing  her,  he 
watched  her  lay  the  last  things  into  "the 
trunk  upon  the  floor.  "What  do  ye  carry 
yer  clothes  for,  Sally  ?  He  '11  sell  'em  to  get 
grain  for  his  cursed  horses.  I  would  n't  take 
any  thing  but  what  I  had  on  my  back." 

At  this  moment  the  speculator  called  out  to 
know  if  Sally  was  ready,  and  hastily  fasten- 
ing the  trunk,  and  leaving  it  with  the  other 
things  which  were  to  be  conveyed  to  the 
wagon,  and  taking  the  bag  in  her  hand,  she 
went  out,  saying  to  her  husband,  "  Bar  it  as 
well 's  ye  ken,  Lewis,  an'  cum  an'  see  me  in 
de  mornin'." 

Eve  was  not  sadder  at  leaving  Paradise 
than  was  Sally  when  she  stepped,  for  the  last 
time,  over  the  threshold  of  that  humble  dwel- 
ling, where  had  passed  the  only  bright  days 
she  had  ever  known.  Twilight  was  fast  fad- 
ing,  and  the  hush  of  a  tranquil  summer  night 
was  settling  upon  the  town.  Who  could  have 
thought  so  much  of  anguish  was  in  human 
hearts  on  such  an  eve  !  Silently  they  walked 
on,  Sally  and  her  master.     At  the  corner  of 


AUNT  SALLY.  107 


one  of  the  streets  she  was  accosted  by  a 
colored  man  named  White,  who  had  always 
been  very  friendly  to  her.  Just  as  he  passed 
her  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  which  was  unheard 
by  her  companion,  "  I  shall  come  up  to  de 
yard  to  see  ye  in  de  eveninV  When  they 
reached  the  slave-pen,  it  was  quite  dark,  but 
out  by  the  wagons  a  huge  fire  was  burning, 
and  its  ruddy  glow  shone  even  on  the  faces 
of  the  poor  creatures  within  the  enclosure. 
Most  of  them  were  sleeping,  worn  out  with 
the  misery  of  the  day.  Sally  took  the  most 
quiet  corner,  and  laying  her  bag  down  against 
the  fence,  had  composed  herself  as  well  as  she 
was  able,  when  she  heard  some  one  speaking 
to  her  through  the  bars.  It  was  White.  He 
had  come  to  tell  her  that  the  speculators,  hav- 
ing locked  the  door,  had  gone  away  for  a 
little  while,  and  that  if  she  would  wait  till 
they  were  all  asleep,  and  the  fire  had  burnt 
low,  she  could  climb  over  the  fence  and  es- 
cape. A  wild  hope  of  freedom  sprung  up 
within  her,  and  she  embraced  it  as  eagerly  as 
an  imprisoned  bird  that  had  beat  its  wings 
hopelessly  against  unyielding  walls,  would  fly 
to  an  open  window  which  revealed  the  sunny 
sky.     Carefully  she  took  the  clothes  from  her 


108  AUNT  SALLY. 


bag  and  passed  them,  piece  by  piece,  through 
the  crack  to  her  friend  without,  and  then, 
when  all  was  quiet,  and  the  firelight  glow  had 
faded,  she  tried  to  mount  the  high  fence  that 
she  might  let  herself  down  upon  the  other 
side.  A  difficult  thing  it  was.  Two  or  three 
times  she  almost  succeeded,  and  then  fell 
frightened  back  upon  the  ground.  Just  as 
she  was  about  to  attempt  it  again,  in  a  differ- 
ent manner,  the  bolt  of  the  door  was  sud- 
denly withdrawn,  and  she  knew  that  the 
master  had  returned,  and  that  all  was  over. 
So  quietly  she  lay  down,  and  closing  her  eyes 
as  if  in  sleep,  resigned  herself  to  her  fate. 

The  morning  dawned  bright  and  beautiful 
on  the  fields,  and  wan  and  wretched  on  that 
imprisoned  band.  The  slave  train  was  to 
leave  before  noon,  and  life-long  leave-takings 
must  be  crowded  into  these  brief  hours.  Only 
a  favored  few  were  permitted  to  enter  the 
yard  ;  most  of  the  poor  creatures  were  stand- 
ing by  the  fence,  talking  through  it  to  their 
friends  without,  strangely  intermingling  oaths 
and  sobs  and  loving  words.  Here  and  there 
one  was  heard  calling  upon  God,  and  commit- 
ting a  friend  to  His  care,  but  most  of  them 
seemed  desperate  and  reckless  in  their  woe. 


AUNT  SALLY.  109 


Sally  stood,  looking  out  between  the  boards, 
to  see  if,  among  the  multitude,  she  could  dis- 
cern her  mother  or  her  child.  The  sun  rose 
high  in  heaven,  and  the  dew  forsook  the 
grass,  but  still  they  did  not  come.  She  began 
to  fear  they  had  not  been  sent  for,  when, 
hastening  through  the  crowd,  she  saw  a  tall 
and  comely  boy  leading  an  old  woman  by  the 
hand,  whom  she  knew  to  be  her  son  and  her 
mother. 

Calling  to  them  that  they  might  know 
where  to  find  her,  she  sat  down  by  the  largest 
opening  in  the  boards,  and  gazed  out  upon 
them  as  if  all  of  life  were  in  her  eyes.  Her 
old  mother  was  growing  childish,  and  her 
heart  was  almost  broken  at  parting  from 
Sally,  who  was  her  only  daughter  and  her 
pride.  Her  screams  and  groans  were  agoniz- 
ing to  hear,  and  pierced  poor  Sally's  heart 
with  a  keener  sorrow.  Isaac  seemed  quite 
stunned  and  silenced  by  the  blow,  but  deep 
thoughts  were  at  work  within  him,  and  he 
was  forming  resolutions  which  were  to  influ- 
ence his  future  life.  Among  the  slave  com- 
pany was  a  young  girl  of  good  disposition 
and  character,  named  Charlotte  Eives.  The 
grandmother  knew  her,  and  begged  Sally,  as 


110  AUNT  SALLY. 


she  desired  the  blessing  of  the  Lord,  to  watch 
over  and  protect  her.  While  they  stood  thus 
talking,  Sally's  husband  made  his  way  to  the 
group,  with  wild,  sad  face,  that  betrayed  a 
night  of  pain.  He  gave  her  a  small  parcel, 
saying,  "  There  's  a  new  dress  for  ye,  Sally. 
When  ye  get  to  Alabama,  if  ye  think  it  '11  do 
for  me  to  come,  find  somebody  to  write  to  me, 
an'  I  '11  surely  go  to  ye." 

"  I  will,  Lewis,  I  will.  I  '11  pray  to  de  Lord 
to  let  ye  come." 

"  Sally,  I  can't  stay  to  see  ye  go.  It  would 
kill  me.  If  ye  hear  any  thing  from  little 
Lewis,  send  it  to  me  in  de  letter.     Farwell !" 

"Oh,  G-od  o'  mercy,  farwell,  farwell!"  said 
Sally,  as  they  wrung  each  other's  hands,  and 
parted. 

There  was  a  great  commotion  now  about 
the  yard;  then  the  door  was  opened,  and  the 
speculators  entered,  and  took  out  first  the 
chained  men,  whom  they  arranged  in  march- 
ing order,  and  then  the  women  and  children 
followed.  Last  of  all  came  Sally,  and  as  soon 
as  she  was  without  the  door,  her  mother  and 
her  son  clasped  her  in  their  arms.  White, 
upon  some  pretext,  had  brought  her  bag  to 
her   again,   and   now,    drawiug   from    it  the 


AUNT    SALLY.  Ill 


precious  Bible,  she  put  it  into  Isaac's  hand, 
saying— 

u  Eead  it  every  day,  chile,  an'  pray  to  de 
Lord  to  guide  ye.  'Pears  like  he  '11  take  care 
of  ye.  If  ye  see  yer  brother  Daniel,  tell  him 
his  mother  loves  him,  an'  wants  him  allers  to 
be  a  good  boy." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  she  to  the  old  woman, 
"  you'se  been  a  good  mother  to  me,  an  I  can't 
half  thank  ye  for  it.  Do  n't  take  on  for  me. 
De  Lord  '11  bless  ye,  an'  bring  us  all  together, 
I  hopes,  in  de  Kingdom." 

Around  Sally  stood  many  of  her  acquaint- 
ances, who  had  been  accustomed  to  attend  the 
same  meeting  with  her,  and  who  prized  her 
friendship,  and  had  come  out  from  Fayette- 
ville  to  bid  her  adieu.  Some  were  weeping, 
some  invoking  God's  blessing  upon  her,  and 
one  was  improvizing,  in  a  minor  strain,  a  song 
which  began — 

"  Sister,  far  well !  I  bid  ye  adieu, 
I  :m  sorry  to  leave  ye,  I  lub  ye  so  well; 
But  now  you  are  going  to  whar  I  dunno ; 
When  ye  get  to  yer  station,  pray  for  poor  me!" 

But  now  the  train  was  ready,  and  the  im 
patient  overseer  called  out  to  Sally,  "  Come, 
hurry  up  there  !     You  '11  have  time  enough  to 


112  AUNT  SALLY. 


cry  on  the  road."  One  last  embrace,  and  the 
mother  and  daughter  and  son  tore  themselves 
from  each  other's  arms,  casting  back  agonized 
glances  as  they  moved  away.  Suddenly,  the 
old  woman  broke  from  her  grandchild's  hold, 
and  running  after  her  daughter,  untied  her 
checked  apron  from  her  waist,  and  threw  it 
toward  her,  asking  her  own  in  exchange, 
which  was  given.  Simple  pledge !  yet  was  it 
as  dear  to  them  as  if  it  had  been  a  girdle  of 
gems. 

"  Far 'well,  far 'well,  the  Lord  bless  ye," 
they  cried,  till  their  voices  grew  faint  in  the 
distance,  and  then  the  grandmother  and  the 
boy  returned  to  their  respective  masters,  and 
Sally  went  forward  to  unknown  lands. 


AUNT   SALLY.  113 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   SLAVE-GANCL 

Over  its  bed  the  river  rolled, 

All  flecked  with  shining  foam; 
The  waves  were  black  and  the  waves  were  cold, 
But,  deep  in  their  darkest,  chilliest  fold, 

I  would  I  had  found  a  home. 

Oh,  it  had  been  a  sweet  release, 

Secure  from  a  master's  call, 
There  to  sleep  in  unbroken  peace, 
Till  the  world  and  the  worldling's  power  should  cease, 

And  the  Lord  be  all  in  all ! 

In  the  slave-coffle  were  about  twenty  men, 
with  three  women  —  Sally,  the  young  girl 
Charlotte,  and  an  old  woman  named  Hagar, 
whom  the  speculator  had  bought  at  a  bar- 
gain, and  five  small  children.  The  men  were 
chained  together,  two  by  two,  but  Hagar  was 
docile  from  age  and  habit,  and  Charlotte  from 
youth  and  inexperience,  and  there  was  a  kind 
of  dignity  about  Sally  which  made  her  new 
master  dislike  to  put  her  in  irons;  so  that, 
contrary  to  the  usual  custom,  all  three  were 
left  unshackled.  The  speculators  rode  in  a 
light  carriage,  and  a  large  wagon,  drawn  by 
horses,  contained  the  baggago  of  the  com- 


114  AUNT   SALLY. 


pany.  The  children  took  turns  in  riding  in 
the  wagon,  and  now  and  then  the  privilege 
was  extended  to  one  of  the  women.  What  a 
hopeless  company  it  was  that  dragged  its 
weary  way  through  the  pine  forests  to  the  far 
southwest !  All  had  been  torn  from  home 
and  friends,  and  were  going  every  hour  fur- 
ther from  what  they  held  dear.  Is  it  strange 
that  their  steps  were  slow,  and  that  every 
gloomy  and  evil  passion  was  aroused  in  their 
hearts  ? 

Poor  Sally  had  borne  up  bravely  hitherto 
under  her  successive  trials,  and  had  btill 
looked  forward  with  something  of  hope  to 
the  future,  but  this  was  too  much,  even  for 
her  endurance;  and  when  the  last  farewell 
was  over,  her  heart  died  within  her,  and  a 
darkness,  which  might  be  felt,  settled  down 
upon  her  soul.  She  thought  Grod  had  for- 
saken her,  and  she  dared  not  pray.  One 
only  desire  filled  her  mind,  and  that  was  to 
escape  from  her  master,  and  find  her  way 
back  to  her  dear  old  home.  The  first  day 
they  advanced  about  ten  miles,  and  encamped 
for  the  night  in  a  little  opening  among  tho 
pines.  A  heap  of  light-wood  was  soon  col- 
lected, and  a  blazing  fire  kindled.    The  meal 


AUNT   SALLY.  115 


and  water  were  given  to  the  women  to  mix 
for  bread,  which  was  baked  in  the  ashes  and 
then  divided,  with  a  small  piece  of  bacon  for 
each,  among  the  company.  But  this  was  not 
the  white  men's  fare — oh,  no !  They  had 
wheaten  bread  and  crackers,  and  a  pot  of 
coffee  boiled  for  them  upon  the  glowing  coals, 
of  which  the  negroes  could  only  inhale  the 
delicious  fragrance.  They  ate  their  delicate 
bread  and  drank  their  coffee,  seeing  their 
captives  the  while  devouring  the  coarse  cake, 
with  as  much  indifference  and  unconscious- 
ness of  injustice  as  you  would  have  in  sitting 
at  a  luxurious  table  and  watching  your  dog 
picking  the  bones  at  your  feet.  When  the 
meal  was  over,  the  men  were  chained  to  the 
trunks  of  trees,  and  to  the  wheels  of  the 
wagon,  and  the  wtmen  and  children  lay  down 
beneath  the  shelter  of  the  tent.  So  closely 
were  they  watched  by  the  overseer,  that  they 
had  little  opportunity  to  speak  privately  to 
each  other,  but  Sally  had  the  young  girl 
Charlotte  by  her  side ;  and  whispering  to  her 
to  keep  awake,  she  waited  until  all  was  still 
but  the  heavy  breathing  of  her  companions, 
and  then  motioned  to  her  to  steal  out  after 
her  into  the  open   air.      She  was  only  ten 


116  AUNT   SALLY. 


miles  from  Fayetteville ;  she  would  never  be 
so  near  it  again,  and  the  thought  made  her  des- 
perate to  return.  Silently  they  crept  along, 
startled  by  every  wind  that  stirred  the  pine 
boughs,  and  halted  between  each  step  to 
listen.  They  had  passed  the  tents  and  tha 
wagon,  and  were  just  striking  into  the  forest, 
when  they  heard  voices.  Just  at  that  mo- 
ment, the  fire  caught  a  new  faggot,  and,  by 
the  blaze,  they  saw  the  two  speculators  sit- 
ting over  the  embers,  closely  engaged  in  con- 
versation. Sally  was  so  frightened  that  she 
stepped  hastily  forward,  treading  upon  a  dry 
branch,  which  broke  with  a  crackling   noise. 

"Who's  there?"  called  out  the  overseer,  as 
both  he  and  his  companion  rose  and  advanced 
quickly  toward  the  wood. 

"Oh,  mas'r,"  said  Sally,  more  dead  than 
alive,  "  it 's  only  me  an'  Charlotte  ;  we  's  jes* 
gwine  to  de  spring  for  some  water — dat  's  all." 

"  Do  n't  tell  me  none  of  your  lies,"  screamed 
the  overseer;  "  I  know  what  you  're  after,  and 
I  know  what  you  '11  get,  too !  "  and  he  shook 
his  fist  in  her  face. 

"Hush,  Jones,  let  her  alone,"  said  the  spec- 
ulator ;  never  mind  about  the  water  to-night, 
Sally;  go  back  and  lie  down  with  the  rest." 


AUNT  SALLY.  117 


"Yes,  mas'r,"  said  Sally,  thankful  to  escape, 
as  she  slunk  back  with  the  girl  to  her  old 
place  in  the  tent. 

"She  deserves  a  hundred  lashes,  Leland," 
said  the  overseer,  as  she  turned  away,  "  and 
if  I  had  my  way,  she  'd  get  'em.  You  know 
she  meant  to  run  off." 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  she  did,  and  I  do  n't  wonder 
at  it.  I  tell  you,  she  was  better  off  than  we 
are,  and  it 's  mighty  hard  to  be  broken  up  in 
this  way.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  her,  but  I 
won't  have  her  whipped  for  trying  to  run 
away.     Now  remember." 

"I  should  like  to  know  how  such  a  chicken- 
hearted  man  as  you  come  to  be  in  this  busi- 
ness, any  way?" 

"  I  was  brought  up  to  it ;  my  father  was  in 
it  before  me,  but  I  'm  sick  of  it  sometimes, 
that's  a  fact."  And  he  walked  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  to  his  tent.  Poor  man !  He 
had  moments  of  great  uneasiness,  for  his 
heart  was  yet  tender.  But  interest  and  cus- 
tom were  stronger  than  his  sense  of  right; 
so,  after  a  little  disquiet,  he  lay  down  and 
slept  soundly  in  the  midst  of  his  victims. 

What  a  night  was  that  for  Sally!  In  her 
dreans  she  liv'au  over  the  day,  and  Isaac  pi 


118  AUNT   SALLY. 


agonized  face  was  before  her,  and  her  mother's 
scream  and  her  husband's  farewell  rang  in 
her  ears.  Bewildered  and  feverish  she  awoke. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  the  camp  was 
astir,  that  they  might  be  on  their  way  before 
the  heat  of  noon.  A  breakfast,  like  their 
evening  meal,  and  then  the  tents  were  folded, 
and  the  day's  march  began. 

Fifteen  miles  a  day  was  their  average  travel. 
In  the  first  thirty  miles  out  of  Fayetteville, 
they  met  several  country  farmers  going  into 
town  with  their  produce.  Some  of  them 
Sally  knew,  having  had  dealings  with  them 
in  the  market.  They  looked  wonderingly  at 
her  as  they  passed,  while  she,  poor  soul,  as 
she  saw  them  disappear  on  the  homeward 
road,  was  almost  tempted  to  break  from  the 
line,  and  follow  after  them,  even  though  she 
should  be  shot  down  in  the  attempt.  All  other 
feelings  were  swallowed  up  in  her  one  desire  to 
escape.  If  their  path  led  through  the  forest, 
she  wondered  if  she  could  not  steal  away  un- 
der its  shadow,  and  at  night  she  lay  awake 
for  hours,  trying  to  think  of  some  plan  by 
which  to  fly  and  elude  pursuit.  Siberia  never 
fell  colder  and  more  fearful  upon  the  ear  and 
heart  of  the  departing  exile  than  did  Alabama 


AUNT   SALLY.  119 


upon  hers.  She  remembered  the  story  of  the 
flight  of  the  Israelites  from  Egypt,  and  she 
sometimes  thought,  perhaps,  the  Lord  would 
appear  for  her  and  give  her  a  marvelous  de- 
liverance. But  day  succeeded  day,  in  mo- 
notonous travel,  bearing  her  farther  and  far- 
ther from  home,  and  affording  her  neither 
opportunity  nor  pretext  for  retracing  her 
steps.  She  did  not  quite  despair,  however, 
but,  every  night,  when  she  lay  down  by  the 
camp-fire,  she  hoped  something  would  happen 
to  favor  her  on  the  morrow. 

Five  lingering  weeks  had  passed,  and  the 
train  had  wound  its  toilsome  way  quite  across 
the  Carolinas  to  the  Savannah  River,  which, 
swollen  by  recent  rains,  rolled  its  black  wa- 
ters, flecked  with  foam,  downward  to  the  sea. 
They  halted  on  its  banks  to  prepare  for  the 
crossing.  The  carriage  and  baggage-wagon 
were  to  go  over  a  ferry  at  some  distance 
above,  but  the  expense  was  thought  too  great 
for  the  party  to  be  conveyed  in  this  way,  and 
so  it  was  decided  that  they  should  ford  the 
stream.  At  this  a  dreadful  consternation 
seized  the  slaves.  Naturally  timid,  and  from 
their  field  life  unaccustomed  to  the  water, 
thev  feared  to   encounter   its    rushing  tide. 


120  AUNT   SALLY. 


Shrieks  and  curses  were  heard  among  them, 
and  the  jaded  limbs  of  many  a  stout  man 
quaked  in  his  fetters.  The  speculator  was  to 
go  by  the  ferry,  and  was  giving  the  overseer 
some  directions  about  their  place  of  meeting, 
when  Sally  stepped  forward  and  said,  in  a 
trembling  voice, 

"Please,  mas'r,  what  river  is  dis?" 
"  It 's  the  Savannah  river,  Sally." 
"  Oh,  mas'r !  have  we  done  got  past  Car'lina?" 
"Yes,  Sally,  you  've  seen  the  last  of  it." 
"Is  dat  ar  Alabama?"  pointing  across  the 
river. 

"  Oh,  bless  you,  no.  That 's  Georgia.  We  've 
got  hundreds  of  miles  to  go  yet." 

Sally  could  not  sj^eak,  for  such  a  faintness 
came  over  her  that  she  thought  she  was  dying. 
"With  the  word  Carolina  was  associated  all 
she  knew  of  home  and  place,  and  Georgia 
and  Alabama  were  as  vague  and  indefinite  as 
if  they  had  been  in  another  world.  But  there 
was  no  time  to  waste  in  thought.  The  Women 
and  children  were  made  to  go  first  into  the 
stream,  followed  by  the  men,  who  were  fas- 
tened together  in  a  line,  and  ordered  to  assist 
them.  At  the  first  plunge  into  the  water,  they 
screamed  and  almost  fell  down  in  their  fear 


AUNT   SALLY.  121 


but  the  overseer  was  behind  them  on  horse- 
back, shouting  and  swearing  and  urging  them 
od.  Desperation  was  in  their  hearts,  and.no 
ray  of  hope  lighted  up  their  future.  Most 
of  them  would  rather  have  died  than  gone 
forward  to  the  misery  beyond,  and  tried  to 
bury  themselves  beneath  the  water,  but  some 
were  afraid  of  death,  and  struggled  madly  to 
keep  above  the  waves ;  so  with  cries  from 
the  half-drowning  women  and  children,  and 
oaths  and  fierce  wranglings  among  the  men, 
at  last,  panting  and  exhausted,  they  reached 
the  G-eorgia  shore. 

Sally  looked  back  at  Carolina,  sleeping  in 
the  afternoon  sun.  and  knew  she  never  should 
see  it  more,  because  that  fearful  river  could 
not  be  crossed  again.  "Oh,  then,"  said  she, 
"  'peared  like  something  burst  inside  of  me, 
and  I  gin  up  altogether." 

And  now  the  most  toilsome  part  of  the 
journey  commenced,  for  all  hope  of  escape 
was  gone,  and  they  were  exhausted  by  previ- 
ous travel.  New  scenes  were  about  them. 
The  pine  groves  of  the  Fayetteville  region 
had  given  place  to  the  more  varied  forests 
of  Georgia.  A  richer  vegetation  clothed  the 
earth,   and    flowers    and    birds,    which    tboy 


122  AUNT  SALLY. 


had  never  seen  before,  made  the  woodlands 

But  Sally  went  forward  unconscious,  like 
one  in  a  dream,  and  old  Hagar,  whose  hus- 
band was  in  Carolina,  and  Charlotte,  who  had 
left  a  loving  mother,  wept  and  bemoaned  their 
fate  at  every  step  of  the  way.  The  children 
were  now  carried  constantly  in  the  wagon, 
and  the  speculator,  finding  that  the  women 
were  failing,  and  that  their  feet  were  bruised 
and  swollen,  ordered  that  they  should  take 
turns  in  riding  also;  and  because  the  wagon 
was  overloaded,  sometimes  gave  up  the  car- 
riage to  them  and  walked  himself.  The  men, 
who  had  no  such  relief,  but  must  plod  on  from 
day  to  day,  began  to  suffer  exceedingly  from 
the  chafing  of  their  fetters,  and  the  master 
determined  to  have  them  exchanged  for  lighter 
ones,  at  the  first  opportunity.  Their  way  lay 
mostly  through  forests  and  thinly  settled  dis- 
tricts, but,  after  a  few  days,  they  reached  a 
village  where  was  a  blacksmith's  shop,  erected 
on  purpose  to  shoe  the  horses  and  repair  the 
irons  of  the  slave-gangs  which  passed  that 
way.  They  halted  in  front  of  it,  and  the 
negroes,  throwing  themselves  upon  the  grass, 
were  taken,  two  by  two,  into  the  shop,  and 


AUNT   SALLY.  123 


their  fetters  exchanged  for  those  which  were 
easier  to  wear.  In  the  village  was  a  minister, 
a  true  gospel  preacher,  whose  heart  was 
wrung  by  the  scenes  which  almost  daily  passed 
before  his  eyes  on  this  great  thoroughfare. 
As  he  glanced  from  his  window  in  the  hot 
noon,  and  saw  the  slaves  lying  there  looking 
so  spent  and  worn,  with  the  chains  about 
their  ankles,  his  whole  soul  was  moved,  and, 
coming  out  of  his  house,  he  hastily  crossed 
the  road  to  where  the  speculator  was  sitting 
under  a  tree,  and  began  to  expostulate  with 
him,  and  to  set  before  him  the  enormity  of 
the  traffic  in  which  he  was  engaged. 

"  What  you  say  is  all  true,  sir,"  said  Leland; 
"but  I  was  raised  in  the  business,  and  if  I 
do  n't  take  'em  down,  somebody  else  will.  I 
assure  you  I  treat  'em  well.  I  drive  the  best 
gangs  that  go  into  Alabama.  There  's  a  proof 
of  what  I  say,  sir;  their  irons  were  too  heavy 
for  comfort,  and,  at  considerable  expense  to 
myself,  I  'm  having  lighter  ones  made  for 
'em." 

"I  see  you're  a  kind-hearted  jnan,  and  the 
last  one  that  should  be  in  a  trade  like  this — 
driving  men  and  women  in  chains  through 


124  AUNT    SALLY. 


the  country  like  so  many  cattle.  You  believe 
they  have  souls,  do  n't  you?" 

"Souls?  I  sometimes  think  their  souls  are 
a  great  deal  bigger  than  ours.  There's  that 
woman,  Sally,  leaning  against  the  tree  yon- 
der— she 's  got  more  soul  than  a  dozen  of 
some  white  women  I  know." 

"And  yet  you  can  buy  and  sell  them  as  if 
they  were  blocks  of  wood!  I  tell  you,  you 
are  committing  a  fearful  crime.  God's  word 
is  against  you,  and  the  judgment  day  will  be 
against  you,  when  you  stand  there  with  them 
to  give  an  account  of  your  lives." 

"Bless  me,  sir,  no  minister  ever  talked 
so  to  me  before.  I  had  a  good  many  such 
thoughts  myself,  last  year,  after  having  a 
great  fuss  at  the  sale  of  one  of  my  gangs,  so 
I  went  to  my  minister  in  Alabama  and  asked 
him  what  he  thought  about  it?  'O,'  said  he, 
'these  are  unavoidable  evils,  and  the  world  is 
full  of  them  every  where.  There  's  no  doubt 
that  slavery  's  a  divine  institution,  and  if  you 
do  the  best  you  can,  you  need  n't  give  your- 
self any  trouble  about  the  matter.'  I  was 
quieted  for  the  time,  but  ever  since  I  bought 
Sally,  I  've  been  thinking  the  same  things 
again  ;  and  I  believe  you  're  right." 


AUNT   SALLY.  125 


"  Then  why  not  give  up  this  cursed  busi- 
ness, and  do  what  you  can  to  atone  for  your 
past  life?" 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  I'm  poor, 
and  if  I  do  n't  make  well  on  this  lot,  I  shall 
surely  fail  and  lose  every  thing  I  've  got  in 
the  world.  The  fact  is,  I  never  could  bear  to 
buy  and  sell  as  most  traders  do,  and  so  I 
never  make  much  money  any  way.  But  I 
promise  you,  sir,  if  I  can  pay  my  debts  when 
these  are  sold,  and  I  '11  try  to  get  them  all 
good  places,  I  never  '11  buy  another  man, 
woman,  or  child  as  long  as  I  live,  for,  as  you 
say,  it 's  a  cursed  business." 

The  new  irons  being  all  adjusted,  the  line 
of  march  was  again  taken  up.  The  specu- 
lator showed  his  sincerity  by  proceeding  with 
more  care,  and  paying  greater  attention  to 
the  food  and  rest  of  his  company.  Sally's  dis- 
tress of  mind  had  so  affected  her  health  that 
she  was  obliged  to  give  up  walking  altogether. 
She  grew  thin,  her  appetite  failed,  and  her 
master  feared  she  would  not  live  till  they 
reached  their  destination. 

"  Come,  Sally,"  he  would  say  to  her,  "cheer 
up.     I  'm  going  to  keep  you  myself.     I  've  no 


126  AUNT   SALLY. 


idea  of  selling  you.     By-and-by,  perhaps,  I  '11 
take  you  to  see  Lewis  at  Clairborne." 

At  this  she  would  smile  faintly,  and  say, 
"  Thank'ee,  mas'r,"  and  then  relapse  into  her 
old  indifference.  At  length  they  entered  Ala- 
bama, and  when  she  heard  where  they  were, 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  so  violently 
that  they  thought  she  would  die.  Her  mas- 
ter begged  her  to  compose  herself,  but  her 
grief  would  have  its  way.  She  refused  to  be 
comforted,  and  every  few  hours  would  moan 
and  weep  afresh,  until  they  reached  the  house 
of  the  speculator,  where  the  slaves  were  to  be 
kept  till  he  could  dispose  of  them  to  his  liking. 


AUNT   SALLY.  127 


CHAPTER   XII. 

ALMOST  DESPAIR. 

Hear  me,  Lord !  in  mercy  hear  me, 

All  my  earthly  joy  is  gone; 
Not  a  star  remains  to  cheer  me 

Through  the  night  that 's  coming  on. 

Thou!  the  meek,  the  tender-hearted, 

Gentle  Jesus !  pity  me ; 
I  from  all  I  love  have  parted, 

Lord!  I  can  not  part  from  Thee! 

The  home  of  the  speculator  was  on  the 
Alabama  river,  about  two  hundred  miles 
above  Mobile.  He  had  inherited  the  place 
from  his  father.  It  had  a  neglected  look,  and 
the  house  was  going  to  decay,  yet  it  was 
more  attractive  than  most  of  the  residences 
in  that  vicinity.  There  were  ample  grounds 
about  it;  and  live  oak  and  magnolia  trees, 
rising  here  and  there  in  stately  proportions, 
atoned  for  the  dilapidated  appearance  of  the 
mansion.  Leland  was  naturally  a  man  of 
generous  impulse,  and  fine  sensibility,  but  he 
had  been  reared  to  his  business  by  his  father, 
who  was  utterly  devoid  of  principle,  and  his 
whole  life  had  been  a  contest  between  habit 


128  AUNT   SALLY. 


and  interest,  and  his  interior  sense  of  right. 
His  convictions  of  wrong-doing  were  just  weak 
enough  to  prevent  him  from  abandoning  his 
trade,  and  just  strong  enough  to  keep  him 
from  making  it  profitable.  So  he  went  on 
from  year  to  year  buying  and  selling,  but  al- 
ways growing  poorer.  His  wife  was  a  meek, 
gentle  woman,  who  had  no  thought  aside  from 
her  husband's  opinion,  and  his  only  child  was 
a  bright,  sweet-tempered  girl  of  twelve  years 
— her  mother's  oracle  and  her  father's  pride. 
If  any  one  wanted  a  favor  of  Leland,  it  was 
the  safest  way  to  approach  him  through  "Miss 
Bessie." 

The  sun  was  just  setting  on  a  sultry  August 
evening,  as  the  master,  with  his  weary  com- 
pany, reached  his  own  domain.  Leaving  the 
negroes  in  charge  of  the  overseer,  he  rode 
hastily  up  the  carriage  way,  and  was  greeted 
at  the  door  with  joyous  acclamations  by  his 
daughter,  and  timid  delight  by  his  wife.  The 
negro  quarters  were  in  the  rear  of  the  house, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Jones  appeared,  leading 
their  new  occupants  thither. 

"How  is  it,  Mary,"  said  Leland,  as  they 
•packed  by,  "do  you  want  any  help  in  the 
hcise?" 


AUNT   SALLY.  129 


"  Why,  yes,  George,"  said  his  wife,  "  we 
really  need  a  cook.  It  seems  like  I  've  had 
nothing  but  trouble  with  Sue  since  you  went 
away." 

"  Well,  then,  there  's  just  the  woman  for 
you.  I  bought  her  in  Fayetteville;  she  kept 
a  cake  shop  there,  but  she  's  sick,  Mary,  she  's 
sick  and  miserable, — and  you  'd  better  take 
her  right  into  the  house  and  attend  to  her. 
Her  master  would  sell  her  because  every  body 
said  she  was  doing  too  well  for  a  nigger.  I 
declare,  I  never  felt  so  bad  in  my  life  as  I 
have  for  her,  and  if  I  can,  I  mean  to  keep  her 
and  use  her  well." 

"0  father!"  said  Bessie,  who  stood  by, 
"  may  I  run  and  tell  her  she  's  to  come  to  the 
house,  and  not  to  be  sold  any  more?" 

"  Yes,  Bessie ;  cheer  her  up,  if  you  can." 

With  light  foot  the  little  girl  ran  to  the 
cabin  appropriated  to  the  women,  and  looking 
in,  saw  Sally  lying  on  the  rude  bed,  the  pic- 
ture of  despair. 

"Don't  feel  bad,  Aunty,"  said  she,  as  she 
put  her  little  white  hand  in  Sally's;  "my 
father  says  you  shall  live  with  us  in  the 
house,  and  nobody  shall  carry  you  away." 

Sally  was   too   wretched  and   hopeless  to 


130  AUNT   SALLY. 


speak.  She  wished  she  might  be  left  alone  to 
die.  She  was  like  one  who  has  gone  through 
the  agonies  of  dissolution  in  drowning,  and  to 
whom  any  attempt  at  restoration  is  painful. 
But  the  caressing  hand  and  the  kind  words 
went  to  her  heart  in  spite  of  herself,  and  she 
wept. 

A  few  days  of  rest  and  kind  nursing  quite 
improved  Sally's  bodily  health  ;  but  her  great- 
est trouble  was  at  heart.  She  thought  she 
was  abandoned  of  God,  and  that  He  had  never 
loved  her,  or  He  would  not  have  sent  her  such 
trials.  There  was  no  one  to  speak  to  her  of 
Jesus,  or  to  remind  her  that  "  whom  the  Lord 
loveth,  He  chasteneth,"  and  so  she  went  on, 
bearing  this  grievous  burden  in  silence  and 
alone.  As  soon  as  she  was  able,  the  cooking 
was  given  into  her  charge,  and  Charlotte  was 
taken  to  the  kitchen  to  assist  her.  Her  new 
master's  affairs  were  in  a  desperate  condition. 
He  had  gone  on  his  last  trading  expedition, 
determined,  if  possible,  to  retrieve  his  for- 
tunes; but  the  incidents  of  the  journey,  the 
purchase  of  Sally,  and  the  reproof  of  the 
minister,  had  aroused  his  slumbering  con- 
science, and  called  forth  all  that  was  generous 
in  his  nature ;  and  he  was  resolved  not  to 


AUNT    SALLY.  131 


part  with  his  negroes  except  to  their  advan- 
tage as  well  as  his  own.  So,  instead  of  selling 
them  at  public  auction,  he  sent  privately  to 
those  whom  he  thought  likely  to  buy  and  to 
prove  good  masters,  and  invited  them  to  com© 
and  inspect  the  "lot"  on  his  own  premises. 
And  now  he  realized,  as  he  had  never  done 
before,  the  horrors  of  that  institution  which 
he  had  been  helping  to  maintain.  It  began 
to  be  a  fearful  thing  to  him  to  have  the  des- 
tiny of  human  beings  in  his  hands.  The 
levity  with  which  the  subject  was  treated 
was  painful  to  him,  and  the  oaths  and  coarse 
jokes  of  the  buyers  grated  upon  his  ears.  And 
thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  although  every  day 
was  increasing  his  financial  difficulties,  weeks 
ran  into  months,  and  only  five  men  and  two 
children  out  of  the  company  were  sold. 

Sally's  position  was  one  of  comparative 
comfort.  Her  master  and  mistress  treated 
her  with  uniform  kindness  and  respect;  and 
sweet  Bessie  always  had  a  smile  for  "Aunty," 
as  she  called  her.  The  burden  had  not  gone 
from  her  heart,  but  she  had  grown  calm ;  and 
with  her  keen  eye  she  looked  around  and  cal- 
culated the  chances  of  her  future.  She  had 
seen  more  than  one  family's  pecuniary  ruin, 


132  AUNT   SALLY. 


and  the  disaster  it  occasioned,  and  she  foresaw 
that  this  would  be  her  new  master's  fate,  so 
she  took  her  present  place  much  as  a  traveler 
across  a  burning  desert  would  take  a  little 
oasis  which  he  knew  he  must  shortly  leave 
for  the  pathless  sand.  She  remembered  her 
husband's  promise  to  come  to  her  if  she  would 
send  for  him,  and  watched  narrowly  to  know 
if  it  were  best.  She  saw  that  slavery  there 
was,  in  some  respects,  a  different  thing  from 
what  even  her  experience  had  made  it  in 
Carolina.  The  ties  of  affection  and  mutual 
dependence  which  at  home  often  bound  mas- 
ter and  slaves  together,  seemed  there  no 
where  to  exist,  but  to  give  place  to  a  forced 
and  cheerless  servitude ;  above  all,  she  noticed 
that  free  negroes  were  always  spoken  of  and 
treated  with  contempt.  So,  bitter  as  was  the 
alternative,  she  resolved  to  send  word  to  her 
husband  to  remain  in  Fayetteville,  where  he 
was  known,  and  where  he  could  at  least  earn 
a  comfortable  and  independent  living.  It  was 
the  close  of  a  bright  day  in  winter.  Sally's 
work  was  done,  and  she  was  sitting  before  the 
kitchen  fire,  as  she  always  sat  now  when  not 
employed,  in  a  kind  of  dream  or  stupor, 
hopeless,  but  uncomplaining.     Suddenly  the 


AUNT   SALLY.  133 


door  opened,  and  Bessie  entered  with  a  beam 
ing  face. 

Oh,  Aunty !  I  've  got  something  to  tell  you. 
There 's  been  a  trader  from  Mobile  here  to 
see  father,  to-day,  and  there  was  one  of  youi 
nice  pound-cakes  on  the  dinner  table ;  and  ha 
said  to  mamma,  'Why,  where  did  you  get 
such  a  cook,  Mrs.  Leland  ?  "  Then  father  told 
him  about  you,  and  when  he  had  done,  the 
man  said  you  was  just  such  a  cook  as  he 
wanted  to  take  down  to  Mobile,  and  that  he  'd 
give  six  hundred  dollars  for  you.  But  my 
father  said  he  would  n't  sell  you,  for  he  meant 
to  have  your  bones  laid  on  the  same  planta- 
tion with  his;  and  I  was  so  glad,  Aunty,  I 
ran  out  to  tell  you.  What  were  you  thinking 
about  when  I  came  in  here?  " 

"  Bless  you,  chile,  you  's  very  good  to  me. 
I  was  thinkin'  'bout  my  husband  'way  back  in 
Car'lina.  I  promised  to  send  him  word  'bout 
comin'  down  here,  but  'pears  like  dis  ain  't  no 
place  for  him.  I 's  bid  far'well  to  him  an' 
all  de  chil'n,  an'  now  'pears  like  dey  'd  better 
leave  me  'lone.  If  I  could  only  get  a  letter 
writ  to  him!" 

"Why,  Aunty,  I  can  write  you  a  letter. 
I  've  written    three   all  alone ;    two    to    my 


134  AUNT   SALLY. 


teacher,  Miss  Martin,  she  's  gone  to  Missis- 
sippi, now,  and  one  to  my  grand'ma  in  Ten- 
nessee. I  '11  go  right  and  ask  my  father  for 
some  paper  and  his  pen." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  returned,  and,  sitting 
down,  wrote,  with  great  care,  a  few  lines,  to 
Sally's  dictation,  directing  the  note  to  "  Lewis 
Beggs,  Fayetteville,  North  Carolina." 

"  There,  now  !  Is  n't  that  nice  ?  I  '11  ask 
my  father  to  take  it  to  the  postoffice  the  next 
time  he  goes  over  there.  Do  n't  you  want  me 
to  write  another  to  your  little  boy  down  in 
Claiborne?" 

"  Oh,  Miss  Bessie,  I  dunno  whar  he  is.  He 
was  a  peart  little  thing !  Is  Claiborne  a  great 
ways  off?" 

"  I  do  n't  know.  It 's  somewhere  by  Mobile, 
aint  it?  When  my  father  goes  down  there 
again,  I  '11  ask  him  to  take  you  and  me,  and 
then  we  can  find  out  his  master  and  see  him. 
If  I  was  only  a  grown  up  woman,  I'd  send 
for  your  husband  and  all  your  children,  and 
you  should  live  in  my  house  and  have  good 
times." 

"  De  Lord  bless  ye,  honey !  Dere  aint  no 
more  good  times  for  me  nowhar!  "  and  Sally 
relapsed  into   her  melancholy  silence,   while 


AUNT   SALLY.  135 


Bessie,  sad  and  uncertain  what  to  do,  stole 
out  of  the  kitchen. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Sally  was  called  to 
the  sitting-room  by  her  master.  "  There, 
Sally,"  said  he,  "  Here 's  one  of  your  old 
Fayetteville  neighbors." 

Sally  looked  up  and  saw  before  her  Mr. 
"Wayne,  a  gentleman  who  had  often  purchased 
cakes  and  coffee  at  her  stall,  but  had  been 
some  months  absent  from  Fayetteville,  and 
had  not  heard  of  her  sale. 

"  Why,  Sally  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  'm  aston- 
ished to  see  you  down  here.  "Where  's  your 
husband?" 

"Oh,  mas'r  "Wayne,  it  does  my  heart  good 
to  see  ye!  He's  back  in  Car'lina.  Tears 
like  dat  's  de  best  place  for  him.  I  jes'  sent 
him  a  letter  to  stay  whar  he  is." 

"That's  right.  Upon  my  word,"  turning 
to  Leland,  "this  is  too  bad.  There  wasn't  a 
working  woman  in  Fayetteville  doing  as  well 
as  she  was.  If  I  could  afford  it,  I  'd  take  her 
back  again.  Sally,  do  you  want  to  send  any 
word  home  ?  " 

Thank'ee,  mas'r  Wayne.  Will  ye  please  to 
tell  Lewis,  dat  'taint  because  I  do  n't  love  him 
dat  I  sent  him  de  letter,  but  'cause  I  knows 


136  AUNT  SALLY. 


he 's  better  off  whar  he  is ;  an'  if  ye  see  Isaac 
an'  Daniel,  tell  'em  their  mother  never  forgets 
em,  never.  Oh,  mas'r  Wayne,  dere's  one  thing 
more,"  and  the  tears  ran  down  her  sunken 
cheeks,  "  'pears  like  I 's  lost  de  Lord  in  my 
troubles.  Will  ye  go  to  de  meetin'  sometime 
Sunday  afternoon,  an'  ask  my  ole  friends  to 
pray  for  me  ?  I 's  parted  with  my  home  an' 
my  husband,  an'  my  chil'en,  but  I  mils'  hold 
on  to  de  Lord  ! " 

Shaking  her  hand,  and  promising  faithfully 
to  deliver  her  messages,  Mr.  Wayne  set  out 
for  Fayetteville.  One  morning,  when  he  had 
accomplished  about  half  the  journey,  as  he 
was  riding  leisurely  along  through  the  forest, 
he  saw  approaching  him,  on  foot,  a  negro, 
with  a  bundle  slung  over  his  shoulder.  As 
he  came  nearer,  he  was  surprised  to  see  that 
it  was  Sally's  husband. 

"  Why,  Beggs,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  that  you? 
I  saw  Sally,  down  in  Alabama,  and  she  told 
me  she  had  sent  you  a  letter  not  to  come 
there,  because  she  knew  you  was  better  off 
where  you  were.  I  tell  you  the  black  folks 
do  n't  fare  as  well  down  south  as  they  do  in 
our  quarters ;  and  as  for  the  free  negroes  they 
hate  'em.     I  'm  sorry  for  you — there  are  not 


AUNT  SALLY.  137 


many  such  women  as  Sally,  but  my  advice  to 
you  is,  to  turn  round  and  go  home,  and  be 
contented." 

Poor  Lewis !  Almost  heart-broken  after 
Sally's  departure,  he  had  resolved  to  go  in 
search  of  her,  come  what  would,  and  had  gone 
thus  far  on  the  toilsome  journey  when  this 
intelligence  reached  him.  Despairingly,  he 
retraced  his  steps,  and  after  many  weeks 
reached  Fayetteville,  thin  and  feeble.  He 
had  never  possessed  much  energy  of  charac- 
ter, and  now,  having  no  motive  for  sobriety 
and  industry,  he  became  a  confirmed  drunk- 
ard, and  in  a  short  time  died  miserably,  and 
was  buried  in  a  pauper's  grave.  It  was  years 
afterward  before  Sally  heard  of  his  melan- 
choly fate. 


138  AUNT  SALLY. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

SOLD  AGAIN — GLEAMS   OF  LIGHT. 

The  wind  is  blowing  o'er  the  woods, 

The  wind  of  March  that  longs  for  flowers, 
And  waking  in  the  solitudes 

Sweet  buds  to  gladden  April  hours. 
And  every  blossom  has  its  bird 

To  hover  o'er  it  all  day  long, 
With  loving  whispers  never  heard, 

Except  by  flower  in  birdling's  song. 

0 !  that  there  were  some  gentle  breeze, 

Across  my  wintry  heart  to  stray, 
And  waken  on  its  leafless  trees 

Sweet  buds  of  hope  and  coming  May. 
And  that  there  were  some  bird  of  love, 

Within  the  boughs  to  sit  and  sing, 
And  singing,  bear  my  soul  above, . 

Where  summer  joys  eternal  spring! 

It  was  February.  Trouble  had  thickened 
round  Leland  till  it  became  certain  that  if  the 
slaves  were  not  disposed  of  within  a  limited 
time,  they  would  be  taken  for  debt  by  the 
sheriff,  and  sold  at  public  auction.  So  deeply 
was  he  involved,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  retain  one  for  himself,  and  he  deter- 
mined, first  of  all,  to  provide  the  best  home  in 


AUNT  SALLY.  139 


his  power  for  Sally.  He  knew  an  enterprising 
man  in  Dallas  county,  by  the  name  of  Cone, 
who  had  purchased  new  lands,  and  was  about 
clearing  them  and  bringing  them  under  cul- 
tivation, and  whom  he  thought  would  be  likely 
to  need  more  help.  So  he  sent  a  messenger  to 
tell  him  about  her,  and  ask  him  to  come  over 
and  see  her  for  himself,  which  he  promised  to 
do.  True  to  his  word,  the  next  day,  about 
noon,  he  rode  up  to  the  house.  He  was  a 
man  of  good  sense  and  intelligence,  and  of  a 
kind  heart,  but  violent  and  unreasonable  when 
roused  to  anger.  Dismounting  from  his  horse, 
Leland  met  him  and  took  him  aside  for  con- 
versation. 

"  My  wife  wants  a  seamstress,  Leland,"  said 
he ;  "  does  Sally  understand  sewing  ? " 

"  I  can  tell  you  this,  sir.  When  I  went  to 
her  house  in  Fayetteville,  I  saw  a  nice  silk 
dress,  upon  which  she  was  working,  lying  on 
the  table,  and  I  was  told  that  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  making  dresses,  and  doing  all  kinds 
of  work  for  people,  when  she  had  leisure.  I 
assure  you  she  's  a  treasure,  and  it 's  mighty 
hard  for  me  to  give  her  up.  I  would  n't  if  I 
was  n't  obliged  to.  But  come  into  the  house 
and  judge  for  yourself." 


140  "  AUNT  SALLY. 


So  saying,  he  led  the  way  into  the  parlor 
and  asked  his  wife  to  send  for  Sally,  upon 
some  pretext,  that  Mr.  Cone  might  see  her. 
One  of  the  young  negroes  was  dispatched  for 
Sally,  who  soon  appeared.  Her  mistress  de- 
tained her  for  several  minutes,  giving  her 
directions  about  her  work.  It  was  an  unusual 
thing ;  and,  looking  up,  she  saw  Mrs.  Leland's 
embarrassment,  and  Mr.  Cone's  eager  gaze, 
and  at  once  the  truth  flashed  upon  her  mind. 

"  Oh,  mas'r!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of 
agony,  "Is  I  sold?  Ye  told  me  I  should  live 
an'  die  with  ye." 

"  Sally,  God  knows  my  heart,  I  meant  you 
should  j  but  I've  lost  every  thing  I  own  in  the 
world,  and  if  I  do  n't  sell  you,  the  sheriff 
will." 

"  Has  it  come  to  dat,  mas'r  ?  "Well,  de  Lord's 
will  be  done!" 

She  turned  av^ay,  but  in  a  moment  came 
back  again  with  streaming  eyes.  "  Oh,  mas'r ! 
I  promised  my  ole  mother  dat  I'd  look  after 
Charlotte,  like  she  was  one  o'  my  own  chil'en. 
'Pears  like  I  could  bar  it  better  if  ye'd  sell  her 
with  me." 

"  Yes,  Cone,"  said  Leland,  "  she  was  the  girl 
you  saw  by  the  kitchen,  when  we  came  in. 


AUNT  SALLY.  141 


She  's  young  and  likely,  and  if  yon  '11  take 
her,  you  shall  have  her  at  a  bargain,  for  Sally's 
sake." 

After  a  little  conversation,  Mr.  Cone  agreed 
to  purchase  them  both,  and  it  was  arranged 
that  he  should  send  a  man  for  them  the  next 
morning. 

It  was  evening,  and  Sally  sat,  as  usual,  by 
the  kitchen  fire,  thinking  of  the  change  which 
awaited  her,  and  wondering  what  dreadful  sin 
she  had  committed,  that  the  Lord  sent  her 
such  afniction*s.  She  was  like  a  plant  rudely 
torn  from  its  native  earth,  and  set  in  strange 
soil,  where  it  has  hardly  begun  to  send  forth 
a  few  nourishing  roots  below,  and  to  expand 
a  few  leaf-buds  above,  ere  it  is  removed  to  a 
new  parterre.  She  longed  for  little  Bessie's 
sympathy,  but  she  had  gone  to  her  grand- 
mother's, in  Tennessee.  Charlotte  was  with 
her,  but  she  was  too  young  and  inexperienced 
to  anticipate  the  future  with  much  anxiety. 
She  wished  she  could  pray,  as  she  once  had 
done,  but  her  trust  and  peace  of  mind  were 
gone.  The  embers  had  grown  dim,  and  she 
rose  to  lie  down  to  sleep  for  the  last  time  in 
lhat   familiar  room,   when   the    door   swung 


142  AUNT   SALLY. 


open,  and,  looking  up,  she  saw  her  master 
enter,  pale  and  dejected. 

"Sally,"  sai4  he,  "you  do  n't  feel  worse 
about  this  than  I  do.  God  forgive  me  for 
ever  taking  you  away  from  Carolina." 

"  Oh  !  mas'r,  't  want  you,  't  was  de  Lord  dat 
did  it,  an'  I  must  be  willin'  to  bar  whatever 
He  sends." 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  Sally,  for  bringing 
you  to  so  much  trouble?" 

"  I'se  nothin'  to  forgive,  mas'r,  you'se  been 
very  good  to  me.  Do  n't  be  grievin'  about  it, 
it 's  de  Lord's  will." 

"Good  night,  Sally;"  and  he  extended  his 
hand.  "  Good  night,  you  've  taught  me  more 
than  all  the  ministers." 

"  God  bless  you,  mas'r !  good  night." 

Early  the  next  morning  Sally  and  Charlotte 
were  on  their  way  to  their  new  home.  They 
rode  in  a  sort  of  lumber-wagon,  which  carried 
also  their  baggage.  A  few  miles  through  the 
forest,  and  they  came  in  sight  of  Mr.  Cone's 
plantation.  He  had  begun  here  as  a  poor 
man,  but  was  year  by  year  adding  lands  and 
servants  to  his  estate.  He  still  dwelt  in  a  log- 
house,  with  the  simplest  furniture  and  conve- 
niences,  while   his   negroes   were   lodged    in 


AUNT   SALLY.  143 


ruder  cabins  around  him.  His  family  con- 
sisted of  his  wife  and  four  sons.  Mrs.  Cone 
was  a  woman  of  great  energy  of  character, 
but  ignorant  and  narrow-minded.  She  had 
seen  little  of  society,  and  her  wardrobe  at 
this  time  was  less  valuable  than  Sally's,  but 
she  was  ambitious  of  wealth  and  position,  and 
envious  of  any  one  who  surpassed  her.  She 
received  the  new-comers  with  a  kind  of  cold- 
ness and  severity,  which  made  Sally  feel  that 
she  would  find  in  her  the  exacting  mistress, 
rather  than  the  sympathizing  friend.  Sally 
had  never  been  more  utterly  wretched  than 
when  she  lay  down  that  n«ight.  A  dreadful 
home-sickness,  which  she  had  not  felt  with 
the  Lelands,  weighed  upon  her  heart.  Spring 
was  coming  on.  The  leaf-buds  were  swelling, 
the  woods  were  full  of  singing  birds,  and  the 
winds  were  soft  and  balmy ;  but  as  she  looked 
out  in  the  moonlight  upon  the  log-cabins,  and 
the  newty-cleared  fields,  and  the  broad  forests 
beyond  them,  she  sighed  for  the  comely  streets 
of  Fayetteville,  and  was  only  oppressed  by 
the  untamed  loveliness  of  Alabama. 

She  had  been  purchased  for  a  seamstress, 
and  the  next  morning  early  her  mistress 
brought  her  a  shirt   to   make;   but  she  had 


i44  A¥NT  SALLY. 


nad  so  much  physical  and  mental  suifermg 
since  her  old  sewing  days  in  Carolina,  that 
she  had  quite  lost  her  former  skill.  Fearful 
of  reproof,  she  tried  to  fit  the  pieces  together, 
but  her  hands  trembled,  and  she  was  so  weak 
and  bewildered  that  she  gave  up  in  despair. 
Her  mistress  was  watching  her,  and  after  a 
few  minutes  she  saw  her  go  to  the  door  and 
beckon  to  her  husband,  who  was  standing 
without. 

"Just  come  in  here,  Mr.  Cone,"  said  she, 
"  Leland  has  cheated  you.  You  bought  Sally 
for  a  seamstress,  and  she  can't  even  make  a 
shirt." 

"  Oh !  missus,"  said  Sally,  ".  'pears  like  I'se 
forgot  all  I  knew.  Dere  was  n't  no  woman  o* 
my  color  could  make  shirts,  an'  pantaloons, 
an'  dresses,  better  dan  I,  but  'pears  like  I's6 
lost  my  senses." 

"  It 's  doubtful  if  you  ever  had  any,"  said 
Mrs.  Cone,  in  an  angry  voice. 

"  Come,  come,  wife,"  said  her  husband, 
11  perhaps  Sally  '11  do  better  after  a  while. 
There  's  other  work  enough ;  the  garden 
wants  hoeing  and  weeding — let  her  come 
cut  doors." 

The  shirt  was  laid  asi£o,  and  Sally,  glad  to 


AUNT   SALLY.  145 


escape  from  her  mistress'  eye,  followed  her 
master  to  the  garden.  Mr.  Cone  was  prepar- 
ing to  build  a  frame  house,  and  stumps  were 
to  be  torn  up,  and  brushwood  was  to  be 
cleared  away,  and  the  ground  to  be  leveled 
about  the  place.  At  all  this  Sally  worked 
for  the  next  three  months,  gradually  gaining 
strength  of  body  in  the  open  air,  but  with  the 
same  sickness  and  despair  at  heart.  Perhaps 
it  was  well  for  her  that  she  had  daily  tasks 
to  perform,  so  that  her  thoughts  in  working 
hours  were  necessarily  occupied,  but  when 
night  came,  the  memory  of  her  griefs  came 
with  it.  "Oh,"  said  she,  "I  allers  cried  my- 
self to  sleep  in  dem  days,  an'  dreamed  all 
night  'bout  de  ole  home  an'  de  chil'en." 

Mrs.  Cone's  cook  was  "  Aunt  Eve,"  an  old 
woman  who  had  had  quite  a  fame  in  the  kitch- 
en in  her  younger  days,  and  in  consequence 
had  grown  very  vain  and  tenacious  of  her 
position.  She  was  now  getting  old  and  in- 
competent. Her  mistress  was  much  dissatis- 
fied, and  hardly  a  meal  passed  without  com- 
plaints on  her  part,  and  resolves  to  make  a 
change.  One  day,  when  some  articles  of  food 
came  on  to  the  table  wholly  spoiled,  and  Mrs. 
Cone  was  questioning,  as  usual,  what  she 
10 


146  AUNT   SALLY. 


should  do,  her  husband  said,  "Why  dor't 
you  try  Sally?  she  's  used  to  cooking." 

"I  never  thought  of  it.  I've  had  no  pa- 
tience with  her  since  she  spoiled  that  shirt. 
She  looks  so  solemn,  and  makes  herself  so 
smart  in  her  calico  dress  Sundays,  that  I 
don't  take  to  her  much." 

"  Well,  you  'd  better  try  her.  Eve's  rules 
are  good  enough,  and  she  can  show  her  how." 

So  Sally  was  placed  in  the  kitchen  to  do  the 
cooking  according  to  Eve's  directions.  The 
old  woman  regarded  it  as  an  infringement 
upon  her  rights,  and  revenged  herself  by 
treating  Sally  in  the  most  capricious  and  pro- 
voking manner.  Sometimes  she  would  refuse 
to  tell  her  what  she  asked  —  sometimes  she 
would  give  her  wrong  measures,  and  so  it 
came  to  pass  that  Sally's  cooking  was  even 
less-satisfactory  than  Eve's.  "  Dis  made  missis 
angry,"  said  Sally,  "  an'  she  'd  come  in  de  kitch- 
en an'  scold  me,  an'  crack  me  over  de  head, 
an'  den  Eve  would  be  glad,  an'  would  n't  tell 
me  nothin',  an'  'peared  like  I  did  worse  all  de 
time.  Oh,  how  I  cried  every  night,  an'  wished 
I  could  die  'fore  de  next  mornin'.  I  thought 
then  sure  de  Lord  had  cast  me  off.  I  did  n't 
take  no  pains  to  look  nice,  like  I  used  to,  nor 


AUNT   SALLY.  147 


to  have  my  room  neat.  I  did  n't  care  for 
nothin'.  One  night  when  I  sot  a  crying,  Eliza 
Freeman — she  married  masr's  nephew — she 
come  to  my  cabin,  an'  says  she,  "  Sally,  I'm 
going  to  give  you  some  pieces  of  calico  to 
make  you  a  bedspread,  and  I  advise  you  to 
rouse  yourself  up,  and  try  to  be  cheerful.  Lay 
down  North  Carolina  and  take  up  Alabama;  if 
you  do  n't,  3^011  '11  have  a  poor  miserable  time 
of  it,  any  way."  Well,  arter  she  went  out,  I 
pondered  on  it,  an'  I  thought  p'raps  I  was  to 
blame  to  grieve  so,  and  p'raps  de  Lord  had  n't 
forsook  me,  more'n  I'd  forsook  de  Lord,  an'  I 
made  up  my  mind,  with  His  help,  to  try  an' 
bar  de  cross,  an'  begin  new  from  dat  hour  to 
serve  Him.  So  I  got  up  an'  made  de  bed,  and 
clar'd  up  de  room,  an'  den  I  knelt  down  an' 
prayed  to  de  Lord  to  be  with  me,  an'  never 
leave  me  any  more.  An'  'peared  like  He 
heard  me,  an'  come  down  an'  stood  by  me,  an' 
said,  '  Sally,  I  will.'  An'  den  I  felt  happy  for 
de  first  time  since  I  left  my  ole  home. 

"  The  next  mornin'  missis  sent  for  me,  an' 
says  she,  'Sally,  how  is  it  you  do  n't  make 
things  to  suit  me  any  better  V  An'  says  I,  <  I 
dunno,  missis.  I  tries  hard  enough  to  do  jes' 
like  Eve  tells  me.' 


148  AUNT  SALLY. 


"  'Well,  how  did  you  use  to  do  in  Carolina?' 

«  t  Why,  I  had  my  own  measures,  an'  fol- 
lowed my  own  ways.' 

"  '  Well.'  says  she,  '  I  want  you  to  let  Eve 
alone,  and  follow  your  own  ways  now.' 

"  I  thought  this  was  a  great  privilege,  for 
de  ole  lady  was  mighty  contrary.  De  next 
mornin'  while  I  was  gettin'  de  breakfast,  Aunt 
Eve  come  in,  an'  begun  to  order  me  about,  an' 
says  I,  '  Missis  said  I  was  to  lay  down  your 
rules,  an'  pick  up  mine.'  Then  she  was  mad, 
an'  went  and  told  missis  I  'd  sarsed  her,  and 
missis  called  me,  an'  says  she,  '  Sally,  what 
did  you  say  to  Aunt  Eve  ? '  An'  says  I,  '  Mis- 
sis, I  told  her  you  said  I  was  to  lay  down  her 
rules,  an'  pick  up  mine.'  '  Well,'  says  she,  '  I 
just  called  you  so  Eve  might  know  you  are 
not  to  follow  her  ways  any  longer.'  So  I  got 
breakfast,  an'  it  suited,  an'  den  I  got  dinner, 
an'  dat  suited,  and  when  mas'r  come  home, 
missis  told  him  Sally  had  took  new  rules,  and 
now  she  thought  she  could  please  her.  So 
things  went  on  pretty  well." 


AUNT   SALLY.  149 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE    LASH FLIGHT   AND    RETURN". 

As  she  lay,  all  faint,  on  the  swampy  moss, 

She  heard  the  hound's  deep  bay, 
And  the  loud  halloo  and  the  answering  shout, 

Waver  and  die  away. 

She  had  no  fear  of  the  snake  below, 

Nor  the  poisonous  vine  o'erhead, 
But  she  shrank  from  her  master's  angry  eyes, 

And  her  mistress'  words  of  dread. 

And  so  she  lay  on  the  swampy  moss, 

All  through  the  summer  day, 
And  heard  the  bay  and  the  loud  halloo 

Waver,  and  die  away. 

Old  Aunt  Eve  was  full  of  vexation  to  see 
Sally  promoted  and  herself  set  aside  as  use- 
less, where  once  she  had  been  supreme.  All 
her  life  had  been  spent  on  an  isolated  planta- 
tion ;  she  had  had  no  religious  influences  to 
soften  her  heart ;  the  only  instruction  she 
had  ever  received  had  been  in  relation  to  her 
cooking,  and  her  naturally  violent  temper  had 
grown  harsher  and  sourer  with  advancing 
age.     She  envied  and  hated  her  new   rival, 


150  AUNT  SALLY. 


and  longed  for  some  opportunity  of  revenge. 
She  had  hardly  clothes  enough  to  make  her- 
self decent,  and  Sally,  in  kindness,  gave  her 
several  articles  from  her  own  store.  She  had 
heard  the  story  of  Sally's  checked  apron,  her 
mother's  parting  gift,  and  one  day,  seeing  it 
drying  upon  the  line,  she  secretly  pulled  it 
down,  and  not  daring  to  wear  it  herself, 
secreted  it,  for  a  time,  and  then  gave  it  away 
to  one  of  her  acquaintances.  Sally  was  deeply 
grieved  at  its  loss,  but  it  was  not  till  long 
afterward  that  she  knew  who  had  stolen  it. 
In  the  neighborhood  where  the  Cones  lived, 
religious  services  were  held  only  once  a  month, 
and  then  in  a  small  church,  about  four  miles 
from  the  plantation.  On  one  of  these  fortu- 
nate Sabbaths,  when  Sally  had  lived  about  a 
year  with  her  new  master,  her  mistress  called 
her  to  her  room  and  told  her  she  was  going 
to  church,  and  expected  to  bring  some  friends 
home  to  dinner  with  her;  and  wished  her, 
therefore,  to  prepare  every  thing  in  the  best 
possible  manner.  Pleased  with  her  mistress' 
apparent  confidence  in  her  ability,  Sally  went 
to  the  kitchen,  and  having  put  all  her  cook- 
ing arrangements  in  the  right  train,  she 
returned  to   the  house,  the   new  one   which 


AUNT   SALLY.  151 


had  been  recently  completed,  and,  going  into 
the  dining-room,  began  to  set  the  table  as  she 
had  seen  it  done  in  North  Carolina.  Mrs. 
Cone  was  very  desirous  to  attain  to  that  style 
of  living  which  characterized  the  best  fam- 
ilies in  the  vicinity.  When  she  moved  into 
her  house  she  had  purchased  many  new 
articles  of  furniture — among  them  a  complete 
dinner-set  of  blue  ware.  This  was  the  first 
day  it  had  been  used,  and  Sally,  who  had 
a  natural  taste  and  skill  for  such  things, 
arranged  it  all  to  the  best  advantage.  As 
she  was  patting  the  finishing  touches  to  the 
table,  Aunt  Eve,  who  had  been  watching  her 
from  behind  the  door,  thrust  her  head  into 
the  room,  and  with  a  malignant  scowl,  ex- 
claimed, "  Laws,  now  !  s'pose  you  think  dat  's 
mighty  nice.  S'pose  you  think  we  never  seed 
nothin'  afore.  Folks  knows  as  much  here  as 
dey  does  in  Car'lina,  any  day." 

"I  was  only  tryin'  to  please  missis,"  said 
Sally,  as  Eve  went  out,  slamming  the  door 
behind  her. 

And  "missis"  was  pleased.  Her  guests 
complimented  the  dinner,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  spoke  approvingly  to  Sally.  Eve 
was  listening  in  the  hall,  and  her  mistress' 


152  AUNT   SALLY. 


words  of  praise  rankled  in  her  heart.  How 
should  she  revenge  herself?  She  thought  2 
moment,  and  then  stealing  slily  up  stairs  to 
Mrs.  Cone's  room,  she  took  a  piece  of  chintz 
calico  which  was  lying  there,  and  pushing  it 
far  out  of  sight  behind  the  bureau,  crept  softly 
down  again,  and  looked  to  see  if  she  could 
find  her  mistress  alone;  but  she  had  gone 
back  to  her  company  and  was  occupied  with 
them  until  late  in  the  evening.  Eve  did  not 
abandon  her  cruel  purpose,  however,  but  early 
Monday  morning  she  went  to  her  mistress* 
and  told  her  that  the  day  before,  while  she 
was  away  at  church,  she  saw  Sally  go  to  her 
room  and  take  the  chintz  calico  and  carry  it 
oif  with  ner.  t  Mrs.  Cone  was  angry  in  a  mo- 
ment. All  her  old  prejudices  against  Sally 
revived.  Without  considering  that  Eve  might 
have  told  an  untruth,  she  ascertained  that  the 
calico  had  really  disappeared,  and  then,  in  a 
violent  passion,  despatched  a  messenger  for 
Sally  and  for  her  husband.  Mr.  Cone  was  as 
much  enraged  as  his  wife,  when  he  heard  what 
had  happened,  and,  in  spite  of  Sally's  pro- 
testations of  innocence,  he  took  her  into  an 
old  out-building,  and  tying  her  to   a  horse- 


AUNT    SALLY.  153 


block,  told  her  he  should  whip  her  till  she 
confessed  where  she  had  hid  it. 

"Den,"  said  Sally,  "  if  he  gin  me  five  lashes, 
he  gin  me  five  hundred,  till  I  told  him  if  he  'd 


stop  whippin'  me,  I  'd  get  de  calico',  though  I 
didn't  know  for  de  life  o'  me  whar  'twas. 
So  I  ran  over  to  his  mother's,  she  lived  in  a 
little  house  near  by,  an'  asked  ■  her  what  I 
should  do.     Sez  she,  Sally,  I  dunno  what  in 


154  AUNT   SALLY. 


the  world  's  the  matter  with  him.  I  believe 
Polly  (dat  was  de  name  of  mas'r's  wife)  has 
hid  it  herself.'  But  I  knew  I  darsn't  say  no 
sich  thing,  so  I  run  for  de  swamp.  Dey 
missed  me,  and  started  out  wid  de  dogs,  but 
dey  went  up  de  road  an'  I  went  down,  an'  so 
dey  didn't  see  me." 

Poor  soul !  Just  as  she  had  begun  to  hope, 
for  more  peaceful  days,  this  new  affliction 
came  upon  her.  But  she  had  resolved,  come 
what  would,  that  she  would  never  doubt  or 
distrust  her  God  again,  and  now,  as  she 
plunged  into  the  darkest  recesses  of  the 
swamp,  with  her  back  all  bleeding  from  its 
wounds,  she  poured  out  her  whole  soul  to 
Him  in  earnest  prayer  for  comfort  and  direc- 
tion. 

It  was  yet  early  morning.  The  trees  were 
dripping  like  rain  with  dews  of  the  night. 
The  magnolia,  the  dogwood,  and  the  wild 
jessamine,  the  honeysuckle,  and  a  thousand 
other  flowers,  made  the  air  heavy  with  fra- 
grance ;  and  strange-looking  poisonous  vines, 
with  brilliant  orange  flowers,  clambered  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  almost  wove  the  branches 
together.  Sally  sought  the  most  secluded 
spot,   and,  sitting  down,   leaned  for   support 


AUNT    SALLY.  155 


against  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  In  the  distance 
she  heard  the  deep  baying  of  the  dogs  and 
the  occasional  call  of  her  pursuers,  but  as 
they  were  going  in  an  opposite  direction,  the 
sounds  at  length  died  away,  and  only  the 
songs  of  birds  and  the  rustle  of  leaves  awoke 
the  silence.  She  was  in  such  an  agony  of 
pain  that  she  could  not  think  clearly,  and  so 
she  lay  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  while  the  hot 
hours  of  noon  went  by.  The  dimness  of 
twilight  was  setting  upon  the  swamp  when 
she  roused  herself  and  began  to  reflect  upon 
her  condition.  She  could  not  hope  to  remain 
long  concealed,  and  even  if  she  could,  she  had 
no  means  of  sustaining  life;  she  was  con- 
scious of  her  innocence,  and  she  had  faith 
that  God  would  protect  her,  and  so  she  re- 
solved to  find  her  way  back  to  her  master, 
But  she  was  quite  bewildered.  She  knew  not 
which  way  to  take  to  reach  the  open  country. 
Just  then  she  heard  the  tinkling  of  a  bell,  and 
looking  up,  she  saw  a  horse  a  little  distance 
from  her.  The  bell  was  suspended  from  his 
neck,  and  he  had  evidently  strayed  away 
from  pasture.  The  thought  struck  her  that 
by  following  him  she  might  find  her  way  to 
the  road  and  so  she  commenced  driving  him, 


156  AUNT   SALLY. 


but  taking  care  to  let  him  go  in  the  direction 
he  chose.  A  little  distance,  and  the  firm 
ground  was  gained,  and  then  a  path  which 
led  to  the  highway.  She  was  so  stiff  and 
sore  from  her  wounds  that  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty she  could  move,  and  when  she  came  to 
a  little  brook,  she  stooped  down  and  bathed 
her  back  in  the  cool  water,  and  wetting  her 
handkerchief  that  she  wore,  pinned  it  again 
over  her  shoulders.  The  day  had  been  in- 
tensely warm,  and  now  the  thunder  began  to 
mutter  in  the  sky,  and  the  big  drops  of  rain 
began  to  fall,  and  soon  there  was  a  drenching 
shower.  But  the  horse  went  on  and  Sally 
followed,  till  at  length  they  came  to  a  small 
house  by  the  road  side.  Hearing  the  bell, 
the  occupant,  a  white  man,  came  out  and 
secured  the  horse,  and  seeing  Sally,  asked  her 
where  she  came  from.  She  dared  not  tell 
him  the  truth,  and  so  said  that  mas'r  Cone 
had  sent  for  her  to  come  and  do  some  sewing 
at  his  house,  but  that  in  trying  to  go  there 
she  had  lost  her  way.  "Why,"  said  the  man, 
"  you  're  ten  miles  out  of  your  course,  but 
you  can  stay  in  the  barn  here  to-night,  and 
to-morrow  morning  I  '11  put  you  in  the  right 
road."     So  she  went  into  the  barn,  thankful 


AUNT   SALLY.  157 


for  any  shelter,  but  her  back  was  so  bruised 
and  mangled  that  she  could  not  lie  down.  All 
that  weary  night  she  sat  up,  tormented  by 
pain,  and  waiting  with  fearful  anticipation 
until  the  dawn  of  day. 

True  to  his  word,  in  the  morning  the  man 
called  her,  and,  taking  her  into  an  open 
wagon,  drove  for  several  miles  in  an  easterly 
direction,  and  then,  stopping  where  two  roads 
met,  he  helped  her  to  dismount,  saying,  "  This 
is  Mr.  Johnson's  plantation,  and  the  next  is 
Mr.  Cones's.  Follow  your  right-hand  road, 
and  three  miles  will  take  you  there."  Sally 
thanked  him  from  her  heart,  and  he  Tode 
away. 

Among  the  slaves  on  Mr.  Johnson's  planta- 
tion, was  an  old  man  called  "  Uncle  Joe,"  who 
was  famous  with  the  negroes  for  his  kind- 
ness and  tact  when  any  one  of  them  was  in 
trouble.  Sally  had  often  heard  of  him,  and 
to  his  cabin,  which  stood  a  little  apart  from 
the  rest,  she  now  directed  her  steps.  He  was 
at  home,  for  on  account  of  his  age  he  was 
excused  from  much  active  labor.  Sally  told 
him  her  story  without  reserve,  and  asked 
him  what  she  had  best  do.  He  gave  her 
some  food,  of  which  she  was  greatly  in  need, 


158  AUNT    SALLY. 


and  advised  her  to  remain  in  his  cabin  for 
the  day,  and  at  night  to  make  her  way  to- 
ward home.  His  wife  dressed  her  wounds, 
and  did  all  that  sympathy  could  do  to  inspire 
her  with  courage.  They  were  godly  people — 
this  aged  slave  couple ;  they  had  seen  much 
of  sorrow,  but  through  the  Lord  they  had 
triumphed  over  all.  Sally  took  sweet  counsel 
with  them  of  the  things  of  heaven,  and  before 
they  parted  they  prayed  together,  and  then 
sung  one  of  those  hymns,  full  of  repetition, 
so  meaningless  when  written,  but  so  eloquent 
to  the  sensitive  negro  heart  when  sung: 

"  Oh,  when  I  'm  in  trouble  here, 
Lord,  when  I'm  m  trouble  here, 

Give  me  Jesus !     Give  me  Jesus ! 
You  who  will  may  have  dis  world — 
Give  me  Jesus ! 

"Oh,  when  I've  an  hour  of  peace, 
Lord,  when  I  've  an  hour  of  peace, 
Give  me  Jesus !     Give  me  Jesus ! 
He  's  the  only  friend  I  want, 
Give  me  Jesus ! 

"  Oh,  when  I  'm  a-going  to  die, 
Lord,  when  I  'm  a-going  to  die, 

Give  me  Jesus!     Give  me  Jesus! 
Over  Jordan  glad  to  go, 
Give  me  Jesus  I " 


AUNT   SALLY.  159 


Sally  bid  her  kind  friends  farewell  at 
evening,  but  as  she  walked  along,  she  could 
not  make  up  her  mind  to  go  directly  home. 
The  church  was  about  half  a  mile  away,  and 
to  it  she  bent  her  steps.  When  she  reached 
it  it  was  dark  and  silent,  but  darkness  and 
silence  had  no  terrors  for  her,  and  she  went 
in  and  sat  down  to  rest  herself,  and  to  try  to 
sleep,  feeling  that  for  the  time  she  was  secure 
from  danger.  The  night  passed,  and  the  morn- 
ing came.  She  half  resolved  to  go  boldly 
home,  and  then  her  fear  overcame  her  reso- 
lution, and  so,  fluctuating  between  determi- 
nations and  misgivings,  the  day  wore  away. 
About  noon,  some  wagoners  encamped  near 
the  church,  and,  making  a  fire,  cooked  their 
dinner  there.  Faint  with  hunger,  Sally 
watched  them,  and  after  nightfall,  she  stole 
out  to  see  if  they  had  left  any  remnants  of 
their  meal.  In  the  ashes  she  found  several 
half  roasted  potatoes,  which  she  eagerly  ate, 
and,  feeling  strengthened,  she  decided,  Avith 
the  first  morning  light  to  go  straight  to  her 
master. 

"With  the  earliest  ray  in  the  east  she  com- 
menced her  walk,  and  the  sun  had  not  yet 
risen  when  she  came  in  sight  of  the  dwelling. 


ICO  AUNT  SALLY. 


Concealing  herself  behind  a  tree  in  the  yard, 
till  some  friendly  servant  should  appear,  by 
whom  she  could  send  word  to  her  master,  of 
her  arrival,  she  prayed  God  to  help  her,  and 
to  "prepare  the  way  "  before  her.  In  a  few 
minutes,  she  saw  Martin,  the  waiter,  going 
toward  the  house  with  some  kindling  wood  in 
his  hands.  He  was  a  good-natured  fellow, 
and  she  at  once  came  forward  and  spoke  to 
him.  How  thankful  was  she  when  he  told 
her  their  mistress  had  found  the  calico  behind 
the  bureau  the  day  after  she  ran  away ! 

Her  fear  was  gone  and  she  stepped  boldly 
into  the  house  with  Martin,  who  went  to  his 
master's  door  and  told  him  Sally  had  come. 
Mr.  Cone  came  quickly  out,  and  Sally,  brave 
in  her  innocence,  stood  there,  erect  as  she 
might  with  her  wounded  shoulders,  to  receive 
him.  All  trace  of  anger  had  gone  from  his 
face ;  he  was  even  embarrassed  as  he  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  Sally.  Where 
have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

Sally  was  afraid  to  say  she  had  received 
any  assistance  from  a  slave,  because  she  knew 
they    would    be    severely   punished    if   their 


AUNT   SALLY.  161 


kindness  was  known,  so,  praying  God  to  for- 
give the  falsehood,  she  replied, 

"  I  stayed  in  de  church,  mas'r,  an'  some 
wagoners  give  me  something  to  eat." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Cone  came  into  the  room. 
She  knew  the  fault  had  been  hers  in  accusing 
Sally  so  hastily,  but  she  was  too  proud  and 
willful  to  acknowledge  it,  and  so  did  not 
speak. 

"  Wife,"  said  Mr.  Cone,  "  I  'm  mighty  sorry 
for  this,  and  I  tell  you  I  '11  sell  Sally  before 
I  '11  ever  whip  her  again." 

So  she  was  dismissed  tc  her  cabin  without 
a  word. 


II 


162  AUNT   SALLY. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    TYRANNICAL   MISTRESS A   SLAVE'S    SABEATH. 

CrRANT  me  strength,  oh  Lord,  I  pray, 
For  the  burdens  of  the  day; 
Let  me  leave  to-morrow's  sighs, 
Till  to-morrow's  sun  shall  rise. 

How,  I  know  not,  yet  I  feel, 
Though  Thou  dost  Thy  face  conceal, 
Tenderest  eyes  are  on  me  bent, 
From  the  azure  firmament, 

And  will  watch  me  all  the  way, 
Till  the  dawn  of  heaven's  own  day; 
Till  my  life  shall  be  begun, 
Where  they  need  nor  moon  nor  sun ! 

For  three  weeks  Sally  was  unable  to  lie 
down  in  bed,  on  account  of  the  severe  blows 
she  had  received  at  her  whipping,  and  she 
was  excused  by  her  mistress  from  cooking, 
but  at  the  end  of  that  time  she  was  thought 
well  enough  to  resume  her  usual  duties.  All 
the  cooking  for  the  house  was  to  be  done  by 
her,  and,  in  addition  to  this,  she  had  her  daily 
task  of  sewing  on  the  shirts  and  trowsers  for 
the  slaves.  This  she  often  had  to  do  at  night, 
by  the  light  of  the  fire,  when  her  day's  house 


AUNT   SALLY.  163 


work  was  over.  Sally's  was  no  well-ordered 
northern  kitchen,  stocked  with  conveniences. 
It  was  a  small  cabin  of  one  apartment,  in  the 
rear  of  her  master's  house.  At  one  end  was 
the  fireplace,  but  about  as  much  smoke  settled 
down  in  the  room  as  went  up  the  chimney. 
She  had  very  few  cooking  utensils,  and  was 
obliged  to  use  the  same  kettle  and  the  same 
spoon  for  half  a  dozen  different  purposes. 
Hurrying  from  morning  till  night,  broiling 
over  the  fire  or  busy  at  her  needle,  her  weeks 
went  by.  To  make  her  labor  yet  harder,  she 
had  to  cut  her  own  fuel  and  to  carry  it  frOm 
the  woods  to  the  house,  often  doing  it  at  night 
and  to  bring  all  the  water  she  used  from  a 
spring  some  distance  away. 

Mr.  Cone  was  prospering  in  the  world,  and 
his  wife  spared  no  pains  to  improve  in  their 
style  of  living.  She  began  to  require  more 
elaborately  prepared  meals,  and  poor  Sally 
was  taxed  to  the  utmost  to  accomplish  all 
which  was  expected  of  her.  Every  day,  in 
her  little  kitchen,  she  made  delicious  pies  and 
cakes  for  "  the  house,"  but  she  was  never  al- 
lowed to  taste  them — if  she  did,  she  was  sure 
to  be  whipped  for  it  by  her  mistress.  Mrs. 
Cone  was  not  above  using  the  whip  with  her 


164  AUNT  SALLY. 


own  hands  when  anything  offended  her,  and 
as  Sally  had  been  legally  made  over  to  her  at 
the  time  of  her  purchase,  she  felt  that  she  had 
a  peculiar  right  to  control  her  as  she  pleased. 
Sometimes  she  would  make  the  women  whip 
each  other,  but  they  soon  learned  to  make 
seemingly  heavy  blows  very  light.  Sally  had 
always  had  tea  and  coffee  and  sugar  in  Fay- 
etteville,  and  now  it  was  very  hard  for  her  to 
be  deprived  of  them  when  her  labor  was  so  se- 
vere. Sometimes,  when  the  breakfast  was  unu- 
sually nice,  her  mistress  would  send  her  a  cup 
of  coffee,  but  this  was  not  often  ;  and  so  she  sat 
up  at  night  to  knit  and  to  do  little  odd  jobs  of 
sewing,  that  she  might  earn  money  enough  to 
purchase  these  luxuries  for  herself.  Mrs.  Cone 
had  had  for  years  a  habit  of  occasionally  drink- 
ing brandy.  As  she  grew  older,  her  desire 
for  it  increased.  Unknown  to  her  husband, 
she  kept  it  always  in  her  closet,  and  although 
she  never  became  intoxicated,  she  often  drank 
so  much  as  to  be  very  irritable  and  unreason- 
able. When  at  length  her  husband  discovered 
it,  he  was  greatly  grieved.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  church  and  of  the  temperance  society, 
but  he  could  not  control  his  wife,  for  she  would 
send  slyly  for  brandy  by  the  servants,  who 


AUNT   SALLY.  165 


dared  not  disobey  missis'  orders ;  and  so, 
when  he  saw  that  she  was  under  its  influence, 
he  would  shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  and 
sometimes  ride  over  to  his  plantation  and  stay 
for  days  together.  So  Sally  was  left  to  the 
entire  control  of  a  woman  always  cold-hearted 
and  exacting,  and  at  times  tyrannical  and 
cruel.  Shut  out  from  sympathy  and  friends, 
with  nothing  before  her  but  thankless,  mo- 
notonous toil,  to  what  did  she  turn  for  com- 
fort?— for  the  heart  lives  by  loving,  and  must 
find  rest  somewhere.  It  was  to  God  that  she 
looked.  One  by  one  her  earthly  supports  had 
been  taken  away,  and  she  had  learned  to  live 
by  faith  in  the  Invisible.  Day  by  day,  in  her 
simple  way,  she  was  living  out  the  truth  of 
those  texts  which  higher  and  more  cultivated 
natures  find  it  so  difficult  to  receive  and  to 
practice,  "  Pray  without  ceasing,"  and  "  Suffi- 
cient unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof." 

"  Every  mornin',"  said  she,  "  I  asked  do 
Lord  to  go  with  me  through  de  day — to  help 
me  make  de  pies  an'  cakes,  an'  to  show  me 
how  to  please  missis,  an'  den  I  felt  contented, 
whether  I  was  whipped  or  not." 

Had  Sally  forgotten  the  past,  that  she  was 
thus  quiet  in   the   present  ?     Oh,   no !     Sh© 


166  AUNT   SALLY. 


never  laid  her  weary  head  upon  her  pillow 
without  thinking  of  her  mother,  and  her  hus- 
band, and  her  children,  and  praying  God  to 
bless  them  wherever  they  were,  and  to  unite 
them  to  her  in  the  uNew  Jerusalem."  In 
this  world  she  never  thought  again  to  see 
them. 

Sally  grieved  most  for  the  pleasant  Fayette- 
ville  Sundays,  when,  with  her  family  about 
her,  she  had  gone  to  church  and  heard  the 
Bible  read,  and  the  singing,  and  the  sermon. 
Sunday  on  an  Alabama  plantation  was  a  very 
different  thing.  All  the  servants  who  worked 
at  a  distance  came  home  on  that  day  to  see 
their  wives  and  families.  Tired  out  with  the 
labor  of  the  week,  it  was,  notwithstanding, 
the  only  time  they  had  in  which  to  do  any 
thing  for  themselves.  They  were  required  to 
keep  their  clothes  clean,  and  this  was  the  only 
day  on  which  they  could  wash  them.  Then 
those  who  had  a  patch  of  ground  given  them 
to  cultivate,  wanted  this  time  to  work  upon  it. 
Some  took  the  oj)portunity  to  go  fishing,  keep- 
ing part  of  the  fish  they  caught  as  a  treat  for 
themselves,  and  selling  the  rest  to  their  mis- 
tress to  obtain  a  little  money  for  buying  fiour 
or  molasses.    But  most  of  them  were  too  tired 


ADi>TT  SALLY.  167 


to  work,  and  would  throw  themselves  down 
anywhere  upon  the  ground,  and  sleep  through 
the  day  like  so  many  dogs.  Bred  to  nothing 
but  physical  exercise — having  only  their  ani- 
mal nature  cultivated,  and  constantly  over- 
tasked, what  else  could  be  expected?  When 
they  finished  their  work  early  enough  on 
Saturday  evenings,  they  sometimes  had  a 
prayer-meeting  in  a  grove  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  house.  Sally  could  not  attend  this, 
nor  the  meeting  on  Sunday  morning,  "  But 
gen'ally,"  said  she,  "  I  could  get  about  half 
an  hour  to  go  down  to  de  afternoon  meetin', 
when  de  folks  was  at  dinner.  We  did  n't 
have  any  preacher  dere  who  knew  how  to 
read,  our  deacon  could  n't  read  a  word,  but 
'peared  like  he  allers  knew  what  to  say.  I 
know  he  talked  right  well,  for  I  used  to  notice 
when  I  went  to  de  church,  an'  'peared  like  he 
talked  just  as  de  minister  did.  Den,  after  he'd 
exhorted,  I  'd  have  to  go  away,  so  they  'd  sing 
some  far'well  hymns,  and  den  I  'd  go  back  to 
de  house.  Dis  yer  was  one  of  de  hymns  I 
loved  to  sing : 

u  'I  have  a  place  in  Paradise 
To  praise  the  Lord  in  glory ; 


168  AUNT  SALL7. 


0,  sister !  will  you  meet  me  there 

To  praise  the  Lord  in  glory  ? 
By  the  grace  of  God  I  '11  meet  you  there, 

To  praise  the  Lord  in  glory. 

"  { The  blessed  hour,  it  soon  will  come, 

To  praise  the  Lord  in  glory ; 
Oh,  brother !  will  you  meet  me  there 

To  praise  the  Lord  in  glory  ? 
By  the  grace  of  God  I  '11  meet  you  there 

To  praise  the  Lord  in  glory.'  " 

Sally  had  joined  the  Baptist  church  soon 
after  she  was  purchased  by  Mr.  Cone,  but  she 
was  never  allowed  to  attend  the  services  ex- 
cept on  Sacrament  Sundays,  when  her  master 
insisted  that  this  privilege  should  be  granted 
her.  The  church  was  several  miles  away, 
and  she  had  to  make  such  haste  in  going  and 
coming,  on  account  of  the  dinner,  that  these 
were  to  her  the  most  tiresome  days  of  the 
year. 

Sabbath  afternoon  was  the  favorite  time  for 
training  dogs  to  hunt  negroes.  When  not  in 
use,  the  dogs  were  always  kept  chained,  and 
no  colored  person  was  allowed  to  speak  to 
them,  or  to  feed  them,  under  the  penalty  of 
a  severe  whipping.  At  training  times,  the 
dogs  were  let  loose,  and  put  on  the  track  of  a 


AUNT   SALLY.  169 


little  negro  boy,  who  was  made  to  climb  a 
tree.  When  they  could  trace  him  unerringly 
to  his  place  of  concealment,  they  were  con- 
sidered trained. 

Such  sights  as  this  greeted  Sally  on  the 
Sabbath.  Every  evening  in  the  week  there 
were  family  prayers  at  the  house,  which  were 
free  to  all  the  servants.  Sally. longed  to  listen 
to  the  Bible,  and  she  always  went,  excepting 
when  her  mistress  had  treated  her  so  harshly 
that  she  thought  to  hear  her  read  would  do 
her  more  harm  than  good.  Thus,  with  very 
little  change,  year  after  year  passed  away. 
Mr.  Cone's  sons  were  growing  up  about  him, 
one  of  them,  Stanley,  into  an  idle,  dissolute 
young  man.  Sally  had  heard  nothing  from 
her  children,  but  she  continued  to  show  to 
Charlotte  Rives,  now  married  to  the  coach- 
man, the  kindness  and  care  of  a  mother. 

"I  had  heaps  'o  trouble,  den,"  said  Sally,  "I 
didn't  'spect  to  get  rid  of  it;  I  didn't  look 
forward  to  nothin  ;  but  Ijes'  picked  up  de  cross 
an'  put  it  in  my  bosom,  for  de  sake  of  de  dear 
Lord  who  carried  it  for  me  so  long  ago !  " 


170  AUNT  SALLY. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

NEWS  FROM  A   LONG-LOST    SON. 

Thank  God!  he  lives,  my  precious  boy! 

The  world  can  give  no  purer  joy ! 

He  breathes  the  air  that 's  breathed  by  me— 

The  sun  shines  on  him — he  is  free ! 

But  let  him  roam  where'er  he  will, 

He  is  my  boy,  my  darling  still; 

And  the  same  God  who  hears  my  prayer, 

Will  hear  him,  watch  him  everywhere — 

The  Slave,  the  Free — my  faith  is  dim, 

But  heaven  's  as  near  to  me  as  him; 

And  every  day,  though  foul  or  fair, 

We're  drawing  nearer,  nearer  there! 

Sally  had  now  lived  twenty  years  with 
the  Cones.  She  had  been  so  accustomed  to 
her  life  there,  that  her  earlier  days  seemed  to 
her  vague  and  shadowy  as  a  dream.  In  all 
this  time  she  had  heard  nothing  from  her 
mother  or  her  children ;  she  only  knew  that 
h.er  husband,  Lewis  Beggs,  was  dead.  She 
thought  of  them,  she  prayed  for  them,  but  it 
was  almost  as  for  those  long  since  passed  out 
of  life.  It  was  rare  in  that  region  for  a  slave 
to   escape  in  any  way   from   bondage.     She 


AUNT   SALLY.  171 


never  looked  forward  to  this.  Death  was  to 
her  the  gate  of  freedom  and  the  beginning 
of  joy. 

During  all  these  years  she  had  been  but 
two  or  three  times  absent  from  the  plantation, 
and  then  by  special  permission.  Her  mis- 
tress had  often  been  solicited  by  visitors  at 
the  house,  to  let  her  go  and  teach  their  ser- 
vants her  ways  of  cooking  and  arranging 
tables,  but  she  always  refused  upon  some 
pretext  or  other.  About  this  time  there  was 
to  be  a  merry-making  at  a  wedding  among 
the  slaves  on  an  adjoining  plantation,  and 
Sally  was  invited  to  be  present.  Her  mis- 
tress chanced  to  be  in  a  pleasant  mood,  and 
bo  gave  her  leave  to  go.  Delighted  with  the 
thought  of  a  holiday,  Sally  made  haste  to 
finish  her  work,  and  a  little  before  dark  on 
the  evening  of  the  appointed  day,  arrayed  in 
a  clean  gown  and  turban,  and  with  her  ''pass" 
in  her  hand,  she  set  out  with  the  other  ser- 
vants on  her  way  to  "  Mas'r  Blake's."  When 
they  reached  there  they  found  quite  a  com- 
pany assembled,  the  younger  people  dancing 
to  the  music  of  a  violin.  Sally  was  glad  to 
see  all  her  acquaintances,  but  she  had  no 
heart  for  such  merriment,  so  she  retired  to 


172  AUNT   SALLY. 


the  farther  corner  of  the  room.  She  soon 
noticed,  sitting  apart  from  the  rest,  a  forlorn 
looking  man,  in  torn,  rough  clothes,  to  whom 
no  one  seemed  to  pay  any  attention.  Her 
kind  heart  was  moved  with  compassion,  and 
she  took  up  her  chair  and  sat  down  beside 
him,  and  began  to  talk  to  him. 

"  Good  evenin' !  'Pears  like  you  're  a  stran- 
ger here.     Whar  d  'ye  come  from  ?  " 

"  I  come  from  de  Car'lina  rice  fields.' 

"Laws  nowl  Dat's  whar  I  was  raised. 
Mebbe  ye  knows  some  o'  my  folks.  Did  ye 
ever  hear  o'  de  Williamses  ?  " 

"  Why,  sartain  I  did.  Dere  's  one  o'  'em, 
Mary  Ann  Williams,  dat  lives  in  Mobile.  I 
knows  her  right  well." 

"Laws!  Ye  don't  say!  Why  she's  my 
own  cousin,  but  I  haint  seen  her  dis  thirty 
year.  What  she  doin'  dere,  an'  how  come 
you  to  know  her  ?  " 

"  Wal,  ye  see  she 's  got  a  good  master,  an'  she 
hires  her  time  an'  takes  in  sewing  an'  makes 
well  on  't.  I  goes  on  de  river,  an'  I  heern  tell 
of  her,  how  she  come  from  de  rice-fields,  an* 
nat'ally  when  I  goes  to  Mobile,  I  goes  to  seo 
her,  an'  we  talks  'bout  de  ole  places."  y 


AUNT  SALLY.  173 


"To  be  sure!  to  be  sure!  When '11  ye  be 
gwine  back?" 

"  I  'specs  de  boat '11  go  to-morrow  mornin'. 
"We  run  smash  'gin  anoder  boat  dis  arternoon, 
an'  we 's  jes'  waitin'  till  dey  can  'pair  her. 
Dat  's  de  way  I  come  to  be  here." 

"  Would  ye  take  a  little  bundle  for  me  to 
Mary  Ann?" 

"  Sartain  I  will,  an'  I  '11  go  'long  wid  ye  now 
an'  get  it." 

The  interest  of  the  party  was  all  over  to 
Sally,  so  getting  up  quietly  she  went  out. 

Among  Mr.  Cone's  servants  was  a  boy  about 
fifteen  years  of  age,  called  Nero,  who  had 
always  manifested  for  Sally  the  affection  of  a 
son.  He  was  remarkably  sprightly  and  intel- 
ligent, and,  secretly,  getting  one  idea  here, 
and  another  there,  he  had  taught  himself  to 
read  with  a  good  degree  of  ease,  and  to  write 
a  tolerably  fair  hand.  Sally's  plan  was  to  get 
him  to  write  a  letter  for  her,  so  she  beckoned 
to  him,  and,  taking  him  aside,  told  him  what 
she  wanted.  He  was  delighted  to  do  it  for 
her,  and  the  three  were  soon  on  their  way  to 
Mr.  Cone's.  Arrived  at  her  cabin,  Sally  kin- 
dled a  little  blaze  on  the  hearth,  while  Nero 
produced  from  his  store  a  pen  and  ink,  and  a 


174  AUNT   SALLY. 


small  piece  of  paper,  and  wrote  the  letter  to 
her  dictation.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  her 
that  Mary  Ann  might*  have  forgotten  her,  or 
would  not  feel  sure  that  she  had  written  the 
letter.     What  proof  could  she  give  her? 

When  her  mother  came  to  bid  her  good-by 
at- the  time  she  left  Fayetteville,  she  had  given 
Sally  a  small  plaid  shawl,  which  their  old  mis- 
tress Williams,  the  deaf  and  dumb  lady,  was 
accustomed  to  throw  over  her  shoulders  when 
she  first  rose  in  the  morning,  and  which  she 
had  presented  to  Sally's  mother.  It  was  a 
singular-looking  shawl,  and  she  knew  Mary 
Ann  would  remember  it,  and  that  it  would 
serve  to  establish  the  identity  of  both.  So 
she  put  it  into  a  little  parcel  with  the  letter, 
and  asked  the  boatman  to  give  it  to  her 
cousin,  and  to  return  the  shawl  again  to  her, 
which  he  promised  to  do. 

When  he  had  gone,  Sally  lay  down  and  tried 
to  sleep,  but  a  thousand  thoughts  were  in  her 
mind.  Hopes  and  desires  which  had  slum- 
bered for  twenty  years  waked  to  life.  Her 
children,  her  friends,  her  early  home,  came 
back  in  memory,  and  the  old  home-sickness 
and  longing  filled  her  heart.  She  began  to 
wonder  if  she  could  not  go  to  Mobile  *tnd  see 


AUNT   SALLY.  175 


her  cousin  with  her  own  eyes,  and  resolved 
that  she  would  speak  to  her  mistress  about  it 
on  the  morrow,  and  so  thinking,  she  fell  asleep. 
When  morning  came,  she  thought  it  wisest 
to  delay  speaking  to  her  mistress  until  she 
had  actually  heard  from  her  cousin,  and  so 
she  waited  anxiously  till  the  "Magnolia" 
should  return,  and  the  boatman  bring  her  an 
answer  to  her  letter ;  and  every  day  she 
prayed  that,  if  it  was  God's  will,  she  might 
not  be  disappointed.  Two  weeks  passed,  dur- 
ing which  she  heard  nothing,  and  she  had 
almost  given  up  hope;  but  one  night,  about 
nine  o'clock,  as  she  sat  half  asleep  by  the  fire, 
she  was  roused  by  a  tapping  at  her  door,  and, 
opening  it,  there  stood  Daniel,  the  boatman, 
with  a  bundle  and  a  letter  from  Mary  Ann. 
Neither  of  them  could  read  it,  so  Sally  stole 
softly  out  for  Nero.  He  was  as  pleased  as  she 
was  to  find  that  an  answer  had  really  been 
received.  It  was  in  Mary  Ann's  own  unprac- 
ticed  hand,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  Nero 
could  decipher  it.  It  was  a  cordial  letter,  ex- 
pressing great  joy  that  Sally  was  alive,  and, 
too  wonderful  for  belief,  telling  her  that  her 
son  Isaac  had  some  years  before  been  in  Mo- 
bile with  his  master ;  that  he  had  sought  out 


176  AUNT  SALLY. 


his  cousin  Mary  Ann,  and  inquired  earnestly 
of  her  for  his  mother ;  and  that  since  then  he 
had  written  her  that  he  had  purchased  his 
freedom  and  was  a  Methodist  minister  at  the 
North ! 

Sally  was  quite  overcome  by  this  sudden 
and  joyful  news.  Again  and  again  she  would 
have  the  letter  read  to  her.  She  would  hardly 
have  believed  its  words  had  not  the  shawl 
been  returned  with  it,  with  the  message  that 
she  remembered  the  way  their  old  mistress 
used  to  pin  it  on,  and  had  not  her  cousin  sent 
her  also  a  new  calico  dress.  It  was  like  that 
older  surprise  when  they  told  Jacob,  saying, 

"  Joseph  is  yet  alive,  and  he  is  governor 
over  all  the  land  of  Egypt.  And  Jacob's 
heart  fainted,  for  he  believed  them  not.  And 
they  told  him  all  the  words  of  Joseph  which 
he  had  said  unto  them ;  and  when  he  saw  the 
wagons  which  Joseph  had  sent  to  carry  him, 
the  spirit  of  Jacob,  their  father,  revived,  and 
he  said,  '  It  is  enough  ;  Joseph,  my  son,  is  yet 
alive  ;  I  will  go  and  see  him  before  I  die  ! '  " 

When  Daniel  and  Nero  had  left  the  cabin, 
and  Sally  was  alone,  she  burst  into  tears  of 
joy,  and  falling  on  her  knees,  thanked  God  for 
His  great  mercy,  and  consecrated  herself  anew 


AUNT  SALLY.  177 


to  Him.  That  her  son  was  living  was  happi- 
ness enough — that  he  was  a  free  man  and  a 
minister,  quite  outran  her  conceptions  of  good. 

There  was  nothing  objectionable  in  her 
cousin's  letter,  so  the  next  morning  she  car- 
ried it  to  her  mistress,  and  while  she  read  it, 
she  said  to  her  in  a  trembling  tone, 

"  Please  missis,  if  you  or  Miss  Eliza  traveled 
on  de  boat  as  de  ladies  do,  an'  would  take  me 
with  you  down  to  Mobile,  I  should  so  like  to 
see  Mary  Ann  !" 

"No,  Sally,  I  never  travel." 

"  Well,  'pears  like,  if  you  'd  let  me  go  some- 
time?" 

"No,  Sally,  you  can  just  give  up  thinking 
any  thing  more  about  it — it 's  altogether  too 
far  from  home." 

Sally  took  the  letter,  upon  which  no  com- 
ment was  made,  and  put  it  safely  by;  but 
sleeping  or  waking,  the  thought  of  it  was  ever 
present  with  her.  "  A  few  weeks  after  this," 
to  use  her  own  words,  "I  was  a-getting  sup- 
per, an'  mas'r  called  me,  an'  I  was  scared,  for 
I  did  n't  know  what  was  de  matter.  I  tried 
to  think  if  I  had  done  anything,  but  thinks  I, 
1  you  've  got  to  go,'  for  mas'r  was  one  of  de 
men,  if  he  told  you  he  'd  whip  you,  he  would. 


178  AUNT  SALLY. 


"Well,  I  went  in  an'  stood  by  his  side,  an'  he 
had  a  paper  in  his  hand,  an'  says  he, 

"  Sally,  whar'd  you  live?" 

"  Near  Fayetteville,  on  Haymount  Hill," 
says  I. 

"  Who  were  your  neighbors?" 

So  I  told  him. 

"  What  was  your  husband's  name,  and  what 
was  he  sold  for?" 

So  I  told  him  that,  an'  then  says  he, 

"  Sally,  here  's  a  letter  from  your  son  Isaac, 
sure ! " 

Well,  I  could  hardly  believe  it ;  but  says  he, 

"  Sally,  he  wants  to  buy  you.  Now  you  've 
paid  for  yourself  many  times  over,  and  if  you 
can  get  your  mistress  to  give  you  up,  you 
know  you  belong  to  her,  I  'm  willing." 

So  I  went  right  and  spoke  to  mistress  about 
it,  an'  says  she, 

"  Sally,  it 's  not  my  mind  any  way,"  an' 
then  she  'd  have  nothing  more  said  about  it, 
only  she  was  dreadful  cross  to  me.  Isaac 
kept  writin'  to  mas'r,  an'  wanted  me  to  tell 
him  'bout  things  dat  happened  when  he  was 
a  boy,  an'  when  I  did,  he  wrote  back  dat  he 
know'd  'twas  his  mother.  Missis  whipped 
me  more  'n  ever,  'cause  she  thought  I  'd  feel 


AUNT   SALLY.  179 


kinder  independent  'bout  Isaac's  wantin'  to 
buy  me.  I  was  allers  thinkin'  'bout  it,  but  I 
did  n't  dare  let  missis  know,  an'  when  she 
spoke  'bout  Isaac,  I  'd  say, 

"Poor  fellow!  he  wants  to  see  his  mother, 
but  I  guess  he  never  will." 

Mas'r  was  all  de  time  tryin'  to  coax  missis 
to  give  me  up.  One  day  we  had  company  to 
dinner,  an'  missis  was  very  happy  with  her 
chil'n  round  her,  an'  mas'r  asked  her  'fore  all 
de  gentlemen,  if  she  did  n't  pity  Sally  when 
she  wanted  to  see  her  son.  I  knew  she  'd  be 
mad,  so  I  got  out  of  the  room  as  quick  as  I 
could,  I  was  waitin'  on  de  table,  and  prayed 
de  Lord  to  soften  her  heart.  Sometimes  I 
gin  up  altogether.  It  was  a  consolation  to 
me  to  think  about  de  grave,  an'  I  thought  if 
my  son  did  n't  get  me,  I  'd  be  there  to  rise 
with  'em  in  the  mornin'. 


180  AUNT   SALLY. 


CHAPTER   XYIT. 

THE   LIGHT   OP   HOPE   AT   LAST. 

Out  of  the  storm  the  rainbow  comes; 

From  midnight  gloom  the  stars; 
The  moon  that  silvers  thousand  homes, 

Climbs  first  o'er  cloudy  bars. 

And  every  morn  's  the  child  of  night; 

There  is  no  other  way; 
0  may  this  life,  so  void  of  light, 

Give  birth  to  heaven's  own  day! 

it  year,  full  of  suspense  and  anxiety  to 
Saify,  passed  away.  Isaac  wrote  frequent 
letters  to  the  Cones,  begging  them  to  name 
the  price  at  which  they  would  sell  his  mother. 
Mr.  Cone  would  gladly  have  parted  with  her, 
but  her  mistress,  to  whom  she  belonged,  was 
unwilling  to  lose  so  valuable  a  servant.  Ever 
since  she  came  there,  Sally  had  lived  in  the 
little  smoky  kitchen,  but  now,  in  order  to 
make  her  situation  as  pleasant  as  possible, 
her  master  built  for  her,  in  the  yard,  a  small 
frame  house  with  a  brick  chimney,  and  placed 
in  its  one  large  room  several  convenient  arti- 
cles of  furniture.     She  had  still  all  the  family 


AUNT   SALLY.  181 


cooking  to  do,  but  she  had  better  facilities  for 
her  work,  and  a  good  bed  to  sleep  upon  when 
it  was  over.  She  dared  not  speak  to  her 
mistress  about  her  freedom,  lest  it  should 
make  her  more  determined  not  to  release  her. 
She  felt  that  prayer  was  her  only  resource, 
and  through  the  busy  day  and  the  quiet  night, 
her  thoughts  went  up  to  God  in  yearning  sup- 
plication that  He  would  soften  her  mistress' 
heart.  As  Mrs.  Cone  had  grown  older,  she 
had  become  somewhat  milder  in  character. 
She  had  been  for  years  a  member  of  the 
church ;  and  now,  when  Isaac's  letters  came, 
entreating  her  to  sell  his  mother,  she  began 
to  feel  that  perhaps  it  was  her  christian  duty 
to  consent.  So  she  finally  said  her  husband 
might  write  to  him  that  she  would  part  with 
Sally  for  four  hundred  dollars.  She  did  not 
believe  he  could  ever  raise  so  large  a  sum, 
but  she  had  quieted  her  conscience  by  naming 
a  price. 

Isaac  was  now  the  pastor  of  a  struggling 
church  in  Detroit,  with  a  family  dependent 
upon  his  exertions  for  their  daily  bread.  It 
was  long  before  he  was  able  to  do  much 
toward  collecting  the  money,  but  in  this  in- 
terval he  wrote  many  letters  of  affectionate 


182  AUNT  SALLY. 


cheer  to  his  mother.     Sally  never  despaired 
She  had  taken  up  her   cross  and  carried  it 
whithersoever  her  Lord  had  led  her,  and  now 
she  had  faith  to  believe  He  would  grant  her 
this  joyful  crown. 

At  length,  Isaac  raised  the  whole  sum,  and 
transmitted  it,  as  had  been  narrated,  to  her 
master. 

"  'Fore  de  money  come,"  said  Sally,  "  I 
never  said  nothin'  'bout  it.  I  was  as  still  as 
a  dumb  creetur,  but  when  I  knew  mas'r  had 
really  got  it,  den  I  felt  independent." 

In  the  evening  of  the  day  upon  which  it 
was  received,  Sally  was  summoned  to  her 
mistress'  room.  "  Hope  deferred  maketh  the 
heart  sick."  She  had  become  so  nervous  from 
the  delay,  that  the  least  thing  agitated  her. 
Trembling  she  went  in,  and  sat  down  in  a 
chair  which  her  master  gave  her. 

""Well,  Sally,"  said  he,  "you're  your  own 
mistress  now.  There  's  a  letter  from  Isaac, 
with  a  check  for  four  hundred  dollars." 

"  Oh,  mas'r!  de  Lord  be  praised  !  " 

"Why,  Sally,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Cone,  "are 
you  so  glad  to  leave  your  old  home?" 

"  Oh !  missis,  I 's  sorry  to  leave  you  an' 
mas'r — you 's  been   good   to   me,   an'    'pears 


AUNT   SALLY.  183 


like  I  shall  feel  kind  o'  strange  anywheres 
else ;  but  den,  I 's  goin'  to  see  one  o'  my 
chil'en  !  To  think  what  de  Lord  has  brought 
me  to !  I  thought  I  should  carry  de  cross 
clar  down  to  de  river,  an1  now  He 's  given 
me  de  crown  'fore  I  gets  to  Jordan  !  " 

"Well,  Sally,"  said  Mr.  Cone,  "I  didn't 
think  't  would  come  to  this  ;  but  I  'm  glad 
for  your  sake.  Isaac  must  be  a  fine  fellow. 
You  're  to  go  on  the  boat  next  week,  in  charge 
of  a  gentleman,  all  the  way  to  New  York, 
and  there  you  '11  meet  your  son.  He  has  sent 
you  five  dollars  to  buy  a  dress,  or  anything 
you  may  need  for  the  journey ;  and  he  handed 
her  the  money. 

Five  dollars !  Sally  had  n't  had  half  as 
much  money  in  her  possession  since  her  old 
cake-selling  days  in  Fayetteville. 

"Laws  now,  de  dear  boy,"  she  exclaimed, 
(he  was  still  to  her  the  boy  whom  she  had 
left  twenty-five  years  before,)  I  'spects  he 
needs  it  himself;  an'  him  sendin'  all  dis 
money  to  buy  me.  I  shall  take  it  to  get 
something  for  him  an'  de  chil'en  ; "  and  bidding 
her  master  and  mistress  good  night,  she  went 
to  her  house. 

The  news  of  her  freedom  was  already  noised 


184  AUNT   SALLY. 


abroad  among  the  slaves,  and  she  found  quite 
a  company  awaiting  her  arrival.  Twenty -five 
kind  and  blameless  years  had  won  for  her  the 
respect  and  affection  of  all  her  fellow-servants, 
and  as  she  entered,  they  crowded  around  her ; 
and  in  their  simple  way,  some  with  tears  and 
ejaculations,  and  some  with  jokes  and  laugh- 
ter, they  congratulated  her  upon  her  good 
fortune. 

"Oh,  my  friends,"  said  Sally,  "  dis  is  more 
dan  I  ever  'pected.  I  hope  de  Lord  '11  make 
me  humble.  I  thought  I  should  live  and  die 
with  ye ;  but  'pears  like  dere's  something  else 
for  me  to  do.  I  mus'  go  whar  de  Master  calls, 
but  I  shall  never  forget  ye — never.  We  '11 
have  a  good  meetin'  together  'fore  I  goes 
away,  but  now  ye  mus'  leave  me  alone  with 
de  Lord." 

Quietly  they  went  out,  and  Sally's  over- 
charged heart  poured  itself  forth  in  thanks- 
giving to  Him  who  had  led  her  through  such 
a  wondrous  gate  of  joy.  All  the  bitter  sor- 
rows of  sixty  years  faded  away,  and  her 
grateful  thoughts  dwelt  only  upon  her  unex- 
pected mercies.  She  forgot  the  unkind  treat- 
ment of  her  mistress,  and  the  trials  from  the 
servants  when  she  first  came  to  live  with  the 


AUNT   SALLY.  185 


Cones;  she  loved  them  all,  and  remembered 
them- in  her  prayers. 

Mrs.  Cone  was  much  affected  by  the  humil- 
ity with  which  Sally  received  the  news  of  her 
freedom.  She  was  sorry  to  part  with  one 
whose  services  were  so  valuable  to  her,  for 
Sally,  though  sixty  years  old,  was  still  strong 
and  active ;  and,  more  than  this,  she  began  to 
be  troubled  at  the  thought  that  she  had  not 
done  her  christian  duty  by  her.  These  feel- 
ings disposed  her  to  be  very  lenient  now,  so 
she  allowed  her  to  call  on  the  neighboring  la- 
dies to  bid  them  good-by,  and  to  sell  her  bed 
to  one  of  them,  (the  feather-bed  she  had 
brought  from  Fayetteville,)  and  to  keep  the 
money  for  her  own  use.  Sally  was  a  favorite 
with  the  neighbors,  and  they  gave  her  various 
articles  of  clothing  as  parting  presents.  She 
obtained  permission  also  to  send  to  town,  and 
there,  forgetful  of  self,  she  expended  her  five 
dollars  in  purchasing  a  stout  pair  of  shoes  for 
Isaac,  and  various  gifts  for  his  children. 
.  It  was  the  night  before  she  was  to  leave 
Alabama.  Her  "free  papers"  were  in  her 
possession,  her  worldly  goods  were  all  packed 
in  an  old  trunk  her  mistress  had  given  her, 
and  she  sat  in  the  center  of  her  kitchen,  sur» 


186  AUNT   SALLY. 


rounded  by  Mr.  Cone's  servants  and  a  few 
from  a  neighboring  plantation,  who  had  come 
to  bid  her  farewell.  They  were  all  sorry  to 
part  with  her,  and  longed  to  know  more  of 
that  freedom  to  which  she  was  going.  For  a 
moment  a  gloom  seemed  to  overspread  the 
circle,  when  one  old  woman  exclaimed, 

"  Well,  Sally,  arter  all,  de  Lord's  jes'  as  near 
to  us  here  as  He  '11  be  to  you  dere." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  said  Sally,  "  dat  's  de  greates* 
comfort ;  we  never  can  lose  de  Lord.  If  we 
love  Him,  He  '11  allers  stay  by." 

Then  she  spoke  to  each  one  separately,  and 
shook  them  by  the  hand,  and  exhorted  them 
to  meet  her  in  heaven.  It  was  with  sobs  and 
tears  that  they  sang  this  favorite  farewell 
hymn : 

"  Farewell,  brother — farewell,  sister — 
'T  is  the  Lord  that 's  calling  me, 
Never  more  shall  I  behold  ye, 

Till  we  all  his  glory  see 
In  the  new  Jerusalem. 

Blessed  Jesus ! 
In  the  new  Jerusalem. 

"  I  have  come  through  many  perils, 
Foes  without  and  foes  within, 
And  the  fight  will  ne'er  be  ended, 
Till  I  'm  free  from  every  sin 


AUNT  SALLY.  187 


In  the  new  Jerusalem. 

Blessed  Jesus ! 
In  the  new  Jerusalem. 

"  Then  when  all  our  toils  are  ended, 
Gathered  on  that  shining  floor, 
We  will  praise  our  glorious  Leader, 

Brother,  Friend,  for  evermore, 
In  the  new  Jerusalem. 

Blessed  Jesus ! 
In  the  new  Jerusalem. 

"Farewell,  brother — farewell,  sister — 
'T  is  the  Lord  that 's  calling  me, 
Never  more  shall  I  behold  ye, 

Till  we  all  His  glory  see 
In  the  new  Jerusalem. 

Blessed  Jesus ! 
In  the  new  Jerusalem." 

Silently  they  went  out,  and  Sally  was  left 
alone.  As  they  crossed  the  yard,  Nero  sud- 
denly came  up  to  one  of  the  women  and  said, 
in  a  hurried  whisper, 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Sue  !  has  Sally  gone?" 

"  No,  Nero  !  but  she  's  a-gwine  to-morrow 
mornin'.    We's  jes'  been  biddin'  her  good-by." 

"  Dat  's  good ;  I  was  afeard  I  should  n't  see 
her  agin.  I  stole  away  from  de  plantation, 
cause  I  know'd  dey  would  n't  let  me  come  if 
I  asked  em." 


188  AUNT   SALLY. 


"  "Well,  Nero  !  I  knows  she  '11  be  glad  to  see 
ye.  De  Lord  knows  we  's  all  sorry  'nuff  to 
have  her  go,  but  we  could  n't  'spect  her  to 
stay  when  her  son's  paid  de  money  for  her. 
Oh,  dear  !  dere  was  my  Sam  dat  dey  whipped 
to  death  'cause  he  would  try  to  run  away.  If 
he'd  a  lived,  he'd  a  been  jes'  like  Isaac.  Oh 
dear,  dear  !" — and  the  poor  creature  went  to 
her  cabin,  and  ]STero  tapped  softly  at  Sally's 
door. 

"  Bless  de  Lord !  Nero,"  said  she,  as  she 
opened  it,  "  I  thought  I  should  go  away  with- 
out seein'  ye." 

"Oh,  Sally !  'pears  like  I  can't  have  ye  go 
noways.  Dey  sold  me  away  from  my  mother, 
an'  now  dere's  nobody  dat  cares  for  me  but 
you." 

"  Do  n't  take  on  so,  Nero.  I 's  sorry  to 
leave  ye ;  but  de  Lord  's  in  Alabama  jes'  as 
much  as  whar  I  'm  agoin'.  You  's  been  very 
good  to  me,  an'  I  never  shall  forget  ye." 

"  Sally,  I  do  n't  want  to  live  here,  I  want  to 
he  free.  When  I  think  about  it,  'pears  like  I 
can't  stay  here  another  day.  Sometimes  I 
almost  conclude  to  run  away,  but  dere  ain't 
much  chance  for  dat." 


AUNT  SALLY.  189 


"  Oh,  Nero,  ye  mus'  n't  talk  so.  P'r'aps  de 
Lord  '11  prepar  de  way  one  o'  clese  days." 

"  Why  Sally,  He  's  let  you  live  here  sixty 
years." 

"  Well,  chile,  I  's  tried  to  bar  de  cross,  an' 
now  He's  givin'  me  de  crown,  de  crown  o' 
joy.  Lat  's  what  we  mus'  all  do,  an'  den,  if 
he  sees  best,  He  '11  give  us  de  reward,  even  in 
dis  world ;  but  if  He  do  n't,  we  's  sure  of  it  in 
de  kingdom. 

11 1  '11  remember  ye,  an'  when  I  gets  to  New 
York,  I  '11  tell  de  people  'bout  ye,  and  mebbe 
dey'1-1  some  on  'em  buy  ye.  Keep  up  a  good 
heart,  an'  the  Lord  be  with  ye  ! " 

It  was  late,  and  afraid  to  stay  longer,  the 
poor  boy  tore  himself  away.* 

The  night  passed  and  the  morning  came. 
Sally  was  up  with  the  sun,  and  assisted  for 
the  last  time  in  preparing  the  family  break- 
fast. When  it  was  over,  her  mistress  came 
into  her  house  with  a  shawl  over  her  shoul- 

*  The  boy,  Nero,  now  nearly  twenty  years  of  age,  is  still 
living  on  the  Alabama  plantation,  and  doubtless  yearn 
ing  for  freedom.  According  to  Sally's  account  of  him, 
he  must  possess  unusual  ability  and  excellence  of  cha- 
racter. 


190  AUNT   SALLY. 


ders,  and,  accosting  her  very  pleasantly,  asked 
her  to  go  out  and  take  a  walk  with  her. 

"  Yes,  missis,"  said  Sally,  and  together  they 
went  out,  her  mistress  leading  the  way,  till 
they  came  to  the  fowl-yard,  where  she  sat 
down  upon  a  fallen  board,  and  motioned  Sally 
to  sit  beside  her. 

Sally's  meek  and  consistent  course  had  had 
a  deep  effect  upon  Mrs.  Cone.  She  was  soft- 
ened and  humbled  by  it,  and  now  that  she  was 
about  to  leave  her,  she  desired  to  make  all  the 
reparation  in  her  power  for  the  long  years  of 
indifference  and  severity. 

"  Sally,"  said  she,  "  I  want  you  to  pray  with 
me  before  you  go  away,  and  I  want  to  pray 
with  you.  We  shall  never  see  each  other 
again." 

"No,  missis,"  said  Sally,  "not  in  dis  world, 
but  I  shall  allers  pray  for  you  an'  mas'r,  an' 
all  de  chil'en." 

"  Sally,  if  I  've  ever  done  wrong  by  you,  I 
hope  you  '11  forgive  me." 

Sally  was  wholly  overcome  by  these  words 
of  her  mistress.  She  forgot  all  she  had  suf- 
fered. Her  heart  was  full  of  love,  and  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  as  she  exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  missis  !  do  n't  talk  so.    You  an'  mas'r's 


AUNT   SALLY.  191 


been  kind  to  me.  De  blessed  Jesus  has  to 
forgive  us  all.  I  '11  ask  him  to  have  mercy 
'pon  us;"  and  kneeling  down,  she  besought 
the  Lord  to  bless  her  mistress  and  all  those 
she  was  leaving.  Mrs.  Cone  followed,  and 
really  subdued  by  the  influence  of  the  hour, 
she  prayed  for  Sally  as  she  had,  perhaps, 
never  prayed  for  herself. 

Such  a  prayer  as  dat  was ! "  said  Sally, 
"  'peared  like  de  blessings  she  asked  for  me 
dere  followed  me  all  de  way." 

Together  they  went  to  the  house,  where  the 
wagon  was  in  waiting  to  convey  Sally  to  the 
river,  that  she  might  be  ready  for  the  boat 
which  was  to  take  her  to  Mobile.  Every 
thing  was  in  readiness,  and  throwing  her 
old  cloak  over  her  shoulders,  for  it  was  now 
December,  she  stepped  into  the  wagon. 

"G-ood-by,  Sally,"  said  her  master,  as  he 
shook  her  hand. 

"Good-by,  mas'r;  far'well,  far'well,  an'  de 
Lord  bless  ye  an'  missis,  an'  all  de  rest — I 
loves  ye  all,  an'  hopes  to  meet  ye  above." 

The  house  servants  were  gathered  about  the 
door,  and  there  was  not  one  among  all  the 
company,  master,  mistress,  or  slave,  who  did 
not  say,  "  God  bless  ye,"  as  she  drove  away. 


192  AUNT  SALLY. 


A  last  look  at  lier  little  cabin,  "  the  house," 
and  the  fields  around,  and  then  feeling  that 
all  old  ties  were  sundered,  and  that  G-od  alone 
was  leading  her,  she  bade  adieu  to  the  planta- 
tion for  ever. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

HOPE    REALIZED. 

And  in  her  arms  she  held  at  last 

The  loved  and  lost  of  ye'ars, 
And  clasped  him  to  her  bosom  fast, 

While,  'mid  her  falling  tears, 
She  murmured  softly,  fondly  o'er 

The  name  that  in  his  youth  he  bore. 

And  days  of  toil  'neath  southern  skies, 

And  nights  of  bitter  pain, 
Were  recompensed  as  from  her  eyes, 

R.an  down  that  blessed  rain, — 
The  while  she  murmured  fondly  o'er 

The  name  that  in  his  youth  he  bore. 

On  a  bright  morning  in  January,  1857,  one 
of  the  employees  of  Adams'  Express  Com- 
pany entered  the  store,  on  Broadway,  of  the 
merchant  who  assisted  Isaac  in  transmitting 
the  money  for  his  mother,  and  going  up  to 
the  desk,  presented  a  "  bill  of  lading"  to  the 


AUNT   SALLY.  193 


clerk,  and  asked  if  it  was  "all  right?"  The 
clerk  handed  it  to  the  merchant,  who  exam- 
ined it  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  an  "  All 
right,  sir,"  gave  it  back  again,  ordering  the 
amount  to  be  paid.  The  expressman  waited 
for  the  money,  and  then  went  out  to  his 
wagon  before  the  door,  where,  amid  bales  and 
boxes,  was  one  precious  article  of  freight, 
consigned  to  the  merchant's  care,  nothing 
less  than  Aunt  Sally  from  the  Alabama  plan- 
tation ! 

There  she  sat,  like  one  bewildered,  amid  the 
bustle  and  splendor  of  Broadway,  looking 
first  on  this  side  and  then  on  that,  and  peer- 
ing anxiously  into  the  face  of  every  colored 
ma*n  who  passed,  as  if  she  would  fain  descry 
the  features  of  her  son.  The  man  assisted 
her  to  dismount,  and  the  merchant,  whose 
heart  as  well  as  whose  influence,  had  been 
enlisted  in  her  redemption,  led  the  way  into 
the  store,  and  gave  her  a  seat  in  the  farthest 
corner,  where  she  was  soon  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  eager  listeners.  As  she  walked  up 
the  long  aisle  between  the  laden  counters,  she 
might  have  been  taken  for  a  witch  of  eld,  or 
a  Meg  Merrilies,  so  strange  and  grotesque  was 
her  appearance.  Her  shoes  were  of  stout, 
13 


194  AUNT    SALLY. 


undressed  leather,  such  as  is  worn  on  the 
plantation;  her  gown,  that  hardly  reached 
her  ankles,  was  of  linsey-woolsey;  over  her 
shoulders  was  thrown  a  long  loose  cloak,  and 
round  her  head  was  wound  a  red  and  yellow 
Madras  handkerchief,  surmounted  by  a  bon- 
net of  erect  crown  and  brim,  probably  some 
cast-off  finery  which  her  mistress  had  worn 
twenty  years  before.  A  most  remarkable 
bonnet  it  was — one  that  would  not  have  dis- 
graced Cripp's  case  of  "  Paris  Styles,"  or  Tiff's 
description  of  "dem  roosts  o'  bonnets  dey 
w'ars  at  camp  meetin's." 

But  Sally  was  all  unconscious  of  the  sensa- 
tion her  appearance  created,  and  earnestly 
inquired  for  her  son.  She  seemed  much  dis- 
appointed when  told  that  he  was  away  from 
the  city,  and  might  not  be  home  for  several 
days. 

"Laws  now!"  she  exclaimed;  "I  thought 
he  'd  be  de  firs'  one  I  should  see  when  I  got 
to  New  York." 

"Do  you  think  you  shall  know  him,"  Sally?" 

"Well,  'pears  like  J  shall;  but  I  dunno.  He 
was  a  likely  lookin'  boy." 

The  question  arose  as  to  how  she  should  be 
disposed  of  till  Isaac's  arrival.     She  knew  no 


AUNT   SALLY.  195 


one,  but  begged  to  go  where  she  could  make 
herself  in  some  way  useful.  A  gentleman  in 
the  store,  Mr.  L.,  who  lived  in  Brooklyn,  said 
that  his  wife's  cook  left  her  that  morning,  and 
that  if  Sally  chose  to  assist  her,  she  might  go 
home  and  remain  with  him.  To  this  she 
gladly  consented.  Meanwhile  she  was  be- 
coming accustomed  to  everything  about  her, 
and  began  to  relate,  with  much  ease  and  spirit, 
msiny  of  the  incidents  of  her  life. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  at  evening  she  went 
with  Mr.  L.  to  Brooklyn.  She  was  kindly 
received  by  the  family.  A  small  room  was 
given  her  for  her  own  while  she  should  stay, 
and  she  was  told  not  to  feel  that  she  must  rise 
early  in  the  morning,  but  to  consult  her  own 
pleasure  about  what  she  did. 

Who  can  describe  her  feelings  as  she  lay 
down  that  night,  for  the  first  time  feeling 
that  she  was  a  free  woman  in  a  free  land? 
Think  of  it.  Sixty  years  old,  and  her  birth- 
right only  just  attained — more  than  half  a 
century  of  toil  and  pain  before  she  could  feel 
that  she  had  a  right  to  herself!  "  Fore  dis;" 
said  she,  "  I  allers  felt  dat  I  belonged  to  mas'r. 
My  hands  was  mas'r's — my  feet  was  mas'r's— 


196  AUNT  SALLY. 


I  was  all  mas'r's,  'cept  my  heart — dat  was  de 
Lord's." 

Her  thoughts  were  so  full  of  prayer  and 
praise  that  it  was  long  before  she  could  com- 
pose herself  to  sleep,  and  then  it  was  but  to 
renew  in  dreams  the  wonderful  experiences 
through  which  she  had  passed.  Awakened 
in  the  morning  by  the  voices  in  the  street, 
she  thought  it  was  her  mistress  calling  her, 
and  rose  hastily,  and  commenced  dressing 
herself,  when  she  remembered  where  she  was. 
But  she  did  not  lie  down  again.  She  went 
to  the  kitchen,  and  began  to  assist  in  the  pre- 
parations for  breakfast,  uttering  every  few 
moments  some  exclamation  of  surprise  at  the 
conveniences  of  the  house.  "Laws  now!" 
said  she,  "  dis  yer  pump  's  a  mighty  nice  ting. 
"Wonder  what  my  ole  missis  'd  say  to  it.  Why, 
down  dere  we  has  to  tote  all  de  water  from  de 
spring.  An'  dis  big  pile  o'  wood  all  in  de  shed 
— I  allers  had  to  go  way  'cross  de  field  for  de 
wood,  an'  never  had  no  help  'cept  when  Nero 
cut  a  little  sometimes.  Poor  boy !  Wish  he 
could  see  dis  yer.  Den  dat  coal  dat  ye  makes 
such  a  han'some  fire  with  in  de  parlor — never 
seed  no  sich  in  Alabama.  Laws !  folks  is  so 
curis  up  here." 


AUNT   SALLY.  197 


The  clay  passed  away,  Sally  spending  most 
of  it  in  the  kitchen,  assisting  in  the  work  of 
the  family.  "  'Pears  like,"  said  she,  "  dis  is 
de  place  for  me."  Two  or  three  times  Mrs.  L. 
called  her  to  come  up  and  sit  with  her,  and 
tell  her  about  her  life  at  the  South.  She 
would  go,  but  her  thoughts  were  evidently  on 
her  son.  She  inquired  anxiously  what  time 
Mr.  L.  would  return  from  New  York,  and 
seemed  impatient  for  the  hour  to  arrive.  At 
length  he  came,  but  it  was  alone. 

"  Well,  Sally,"  said  he,  "  Isaac  did  n't  come 
to-day ;  perhaps  you  '11  see  him  to-morrow. 
But  you  must  n't  be  discouraged.  It  '11  take 
some  little  time  for  him  to  collect  money 
enough  to  carry  you  back  to  Detroit,  where 
he  lives." 

Sally  tried  to  look  cheerful,  and  asked  him, 
as  she  had  several  times  done  before,  to  tell 
her  how  Isaac  looked,  and  all  that  he  had  said 
about  her. 

Thus  more  than  a  week  passed  away,  dur- 
ing which  nothing  was  heard  from  Isaac. 
Sally  grew  sadder  and  quieter  with  every  day, 
and  at  last  really  seemed  ill,  and  took  to  her 
bed.  "  At  first,"  said  Mrs.  L.,  "  she  was  con- 
stantly singing  some  of  her  favorite  hymns, 


198  AUNT   SALLY. 


whether  at  work  or  in  her  room,  but  at  length 
the  singing  ceased  altogether.  I  knew  it  was 
only  from  anxiety  on  account  of  her  son,  and 
I  was  almost  as  impatient  for  his  coming  as 
she  was." 

Asking  Sally,  afterward,  about  this  time  of 
suspense,  she  said, 

"  Dey  was  all  kind  to  me.  I  tried  to  put 
my  trust  in  de  Lord,  an'  to  think  He'd  bring 
it  all  out  right,  but  at  last,  when  I  did  n't 
hear  nothin'  from  Isaac,  I  began  to  be  afeard 
't  was  n't  him  dat  sent  de  money,  an'  dat  de 
speculators  had  got  me  agin." 

At  length,  when  nearly  two  weeks  had 
elapsed,  Isaac  returned  from  his  visit  to  E"ew 
Haven  and  the  vicinity,  and  went  straight  to 
the  Broadway  store  to  learn  the  news  respect- 
ing his  mother.  When  told  that  she  had  ar- 
rived, and  was  actually  in  Brooklyn,  he  was 
quite  overcome,  and  felt  as  though  he  could 
hardly  wait  an  hour  to  see  her. 

"  I  will  go  to  Brooklyn  with  you  at  three 
o'clock,"  said  Mr.  L.  3  "  at  three  o'clock  this 
afternoon." 

Isaac  had  some  business  still  to  attend  to, 
so  saying  he  would  be  back  at  that  time,  he 
went  out.     But  his  thoughts  were  all  with  his 


AUNT  SALLY.  199 


mother,  and  five  minutes  before  three,  "by  the 
Trinity  church  clock,  he  entered  the  store. 
He  waited  till  he  heard  the  bell  strike  the 
hour,  and  then  going  up  to  Mr.  L.,  who  was 
busy  with  some  gentlemen,  he  said — "  It  is 
three  o'clock,  sir,"  thus  reminding  him  of  his 
appointment.  Mr.  L.  remembered  the  engage- 
ment he  had  made,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
two  were  crossing  the  ferry  to  Brooklyn.  He 
had  a  hundred  questions  to  ask  as  to  his 
mother's  looks  and  appearance  and  conversa- 
tion, and  seemed  annoyed  at  every  little  delay 
of  the  boat  or  the  cars  upon  which  they  went 
out  to  the  avenue  where  Mr.  L.  resided.  No 
wonder !  He  was  to  see  her  from  whom  he 
had  been  separated  for  twenty-five  weary 
years,  and  whom,  much  of  the  time,  he  had 
thought  dead.  .When  they  reached  the  house, 
Mr.  L.  took  Isaac  to  the  parlor,  and  gave  him 
a  seat,  while  he  went  to  find  Sally.  She  was 
up,  and  in  the  kitchen  busily  engaged  in 
making  custards  for  tea.  He  told  her  he 
wanted  her  to  come  up  stairs  and  see  some 
one  who  was  waiting  for  her.  She  had  almost 
ceased  to  look  for  Isaac,  and  as  many  of  Mr. 
s  friends  had  called  to  see  her  from  sympa- 


200  AUNT   SALLY. 


thy  and  curiosity,  she  supposed  it  was  one 
of  them,  and  answered, 

"  Yes,  sir,  when  I  gets  dese  yer  custards  in 
the  oven." 

"  But,  Sally,  I  want  you  to  come  now." 

So,  all  unthinking,  she  left  the  dish,  took 
off  her  checked  apron,  put  on  her  spectacles, 
and  followed  him  up  stairs.  Daylight  was 
growing  dim  in  the  curtained  parlor,  and  the 
gas  was  not  yet  burning.  Sally  stood  a  mo- 
ment on  the  threshold,  looking  into  the  room, 
and  then,  all  at  once,  the  truth  flashed  upon 
her,  and  she  sprang  forward,  exclaiming,  "  To 
be  sure,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure!"  and  clasped 
her  son  in  her  arms ! 

She  held  him  tightly  to  her ;  she  patted  him 
as  if  he  had  been  an  infant ;  and  when  he 
could  not  speak,  but  only  wept,  she  would 
say, 

"  Do  n't  cry,  Isaac,  do  n't  cry.  I  prayed  to 
de  Lord  dat  I  might  n't  cry." 

And  he  could  only  answer, 

"  Oh,  mother !  mother !  the  Lord  be  praised  !" 

Long  they  stood  there,  speaking  not,  but 
clasping  each  other  as  if  they  could  never 
more  be  parted.  By-and-by  they  sat  down 
upon  the  sofa  behind  them,  still  holding  each 


AUNT   SALLY.  201 


other's  hands,  and  began  to  talk  of  all  their 
past.  They  were  left  undisturbed  by  the 
family,  and  it  was  late  that  night  when  Isaac, 
after  repeated  farewells,  left  the  house  to  re- 
turn to  New  York. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Sally  went  to  find 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  L. 

"Laws  now!"  said  she,  "to  think  dat  ar's 
my  boy  !  I  allers  thought  de  Lord  had  some- 
thin'  for  him  to  do,  but  I  never  'spected  he'd 
be  such  a  gentleman,  an'  a  preacher  too — de 
Lord's  been  very  good  to  me" — and  bidding 
them  good  night,  she  went  to  her  room.  After 
the  door  was  shut,  they  heard  her  singing  one 
of  her  favorite  hymns — 

"  Come,  saints  and  sinners,  hear  me  tell 
The  wonders  of  Immanuel, 
Who  saved  me  from  a  burning  hell, 
And  brought  my  soul  with  him  to  dwell, 
And  gave  me  heavenly  union. 

Isaac  had  some  friends  among  the  colored 
people  in  New  York,  who  were  very  desirous 
that  he  should  bring  his  mother  to  stay  with 
them,  so  the  next  day  he  came  to  Mrs.  L.'s  to 
take  her  away.  Sally  was  glad  to  go  any- 
where with  him,  but  she  was  sorry  to  leave 
those  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her,  and  ex- 


202  AUNT   SALLY. 


pressed  again  and  again  to  them  her  grati- 
tude. Mrs.  L.  made  her  a  parting  present  of 
some  spools  of  thread  and  some  needles,  with 
which  she  was  much  pleased.  The  story  of 
her  release  was  now  noised  abroad.  She 
received  many  kindly  attentions,  and  was 
invited  to  make  various  visits  with  her  son. 
Among  others,  she  came  back  to  Brooklyn 
to  spend  a  few  days  at  the  house  of  the  gentle- 
man who  had  been  instrumental  in  her  re- 
demption, and  it  was  there  that  the  writer 
of  this  narrative  first  saw  her.  "We  were 
sitting  round  the  blazing  fire,  one  cold  Janu- 
ary evening,  when  the  door-bell  rung,  and 
Sally  and  her  son  were  ushered  in.  Perfectly 
black,  with  a  face  wholly  negro  in  its  charac- 
teristics, there  was  yet  something  command- 
ing in  her  appearance,  as  with  majestic  form 
and  dignified  bearing  she  entered  the  room, 
and,  speaking  to  the  circle  with  ease  and  pro- 
priety, took  a  seat  by  the  fire.  There  was 
about  her  that  repose  and  self-poise  to  which 
all  polite  culture  aspires,  but  which,  in  her 
was  the  result  of  the  inward  teachings  of  the 
Spirit,  and  of  a  life  of  such  suffering  and  pri- 
vation, that  she  had  come  to  regard  all 
earthly  things  as  of  little  moment,  and  to  look 


AUNT   SALLY.  203 


forward  with  lively  hope  to  the  fruitions  of 
the  unseen. 

Her  fantastic  bonnet  had  given  place  to  a 
close  silk  hood,  and  her  awkward  shoes,  to  a 
more  elegant  and  comfortable  pair;  otherwise 
her  dress  was  the  same.  And  there,  in  that 
brightly  lighted  room,  with  the  snow  blowing 
against  the  panes  without,  she  went  over  the 
story  of  her  life,  which  has  been  reproduced, 
as  nearly  as  possible  in  her  own  words,  in 
these  pages.  It  was  wonderful,  the  entire 
absence  of  malice  or  revenge  from  her  thoughts 
and  words.  She  seemed  to  have  forgiven  all, 
and  to  love  all,  for  the  sake  of  her  great  mas- 
ter. Her  simple  piety,  her  ideas  of  self-sacri- 
fice, and  entire  submission  to  the  divine  will, 
reminded  one  of  Madame  Guyon's  highest 
spiritual  nights. 

The  sabbath  came,  and  Sally  accompanied 
the  family  to  Plymouth  Church.  While  in 
New  York,  she  had  seen  the  Eev.  Dr. 
Thompson,  and  was  very  desirous  to  hear  him 
preach,  but  the  Tabernacle  was  full  the 
morning  she  went  there,  and  she  was  unable 
to  obtain  a  seat  except  so  near  the  door  that 
she  could  not  hear  the  sermon.  So  now  she 
was  seated  just  beneath  the  platform,  where 


204  AUNT    SALLY. 


every  word  would  be  distinctly  audible.  She 
was  a  member  of  the  Baptist  church  in  Ala- 
bama, and  had  heard  no  preaching  there,  save 
now  and  then  a  sermon  from  the  ministers  of 
that  persuasion.  The  deep  tones  of  the  organ 
and  the  singing  of  the  hymns  by  the  whole 
congregation,  were  quite  new  to  her.  The 
sermon  was  one  of  those  lucid  presentations 
of  truth  for  which  Mr.  Beecher  is  remarkable, 
satisfying  the  most  logical  intellect,  and  yet 
apparent  to  the  simplest  heart.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  Sally  lost  not  a  word.  Speaking  of 
it  when  we  reached  home,  "  "Why,"  said  she, 
"  I  used  to  think  all  churches  but  de  Babtis' 
worshiped  idols,  but  I  jes'  made  up  my  mind 
when  I  heard  dat  ar  sermon,  dat  I  never  'd 
refuse  gwine  into  no  church  agin,  so  long  as 
I  lived  in  dis  low  ground  o'  sorrow.  It  made 
me  feel  bad  'bout  mas  'r.  Tears  like  it 's 
impossible  for  mas  'r  to  get  to  heaven.  He 
do  n't  cheat,  nor  tell  lies,  but  den  he  do  n't 
bring  himself  up  to  what  de  preacher  said  dis 
mornin'.  Laws !  if  I  could  a'  heerd  dat 
sermon  down  dere,  sometimes,  when  I  felt  so 
bad!  But  den  'peared  like  de  Lord  Jesus 
talked  to  me,  an'  dat  was  best  of  all.  Poor 
mas'r,  I  hopes  he'  11  get  to  heaven.     I  won 't 


AUNT   SALLY.  205 


judge  no  one.     We's  all  got  to  be  judged  one 
o'  dese  mornin's." 

A  moment,  and  she  exclaimed,  "What  a 
'markable  pra'r  dat  was !  So  humble,  so 
beggin',  so  coaxin',  to  every  poor  sinner.  I 
took  partie'lar  notice  o'  dat  ar  pra'r.  Den 
de  singin' — it  made  me  think  o'  de  hymn. 

'  We  '11  join  de  forty  thousand 
Upon  de  golden  shore  !'  " 

Her  expressions  of  surprise  and  delight  at 
any  elegances  about  the  house  were  amusiug. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  I  'se  seen  more  at  de 
North  dan  I  thought  was  in  de  world.  If  I 
should  go  back  an'  tell  'em  'bout  it,  dey 
would  n't  believe  me.  Wonder  what  missis  'd 
say  to  dis  yer  carpet,  an'  dem  picters  hangin' 
up  dere?  Well,  dey  's  all  very  nice,  if  ye  do  n't 
get  yer  hearts  sot  on  'em.  Ye  mus'  n't  do  dat, 
'cause  I  'specs  dey  aint  notMrC  to  what  we 
shall  see  in  de  New  Jerusalem." 

There  was  a  poor,  indolent  colored  girl,  who 
came  occasionally  to  the  house  to  beg.  Sally 
was  indignant  that  one  who  was  well  and  able 
to  work  should  live  upon  charity,  and,  feeliog 
that  she  had  a  right  to  speak  to  one  of  her 
own  race,  she  went  out  to  the  side-gate  where 


I, 

206  AUNT   SALLY. 


the  girl  was  in  waiting,  and  reproved  her 
severely  for  her  mode  of  life.  As  for  herself, 
she  put  her  principles  in  practice,  for  although 
she  was  told  to  do  only  what  she  pleased,  she 
chose  to  be  busy,  and  asked  the  privilege 
of  preparing  for  the  table  various  palatable 
dishes  which  are  peculiar  to  the  South. 

Before  she  left,  the  lady  of  the  house  asked 
her  to  pray  with  her  for  her  children,  and  she 
said  it  was  affecting  to  hear  her  simple,  earnest 
words,  as  she  besought  "  de  great  Mas'r  above 
to  bless  dis  dear  young  missis  an'  her  chil'n." 

Isaac's  business  was  now  done,  his  money 
collected,  and  he  was  anxious  to  take  his 
mother  to  his  home.  She,  too,  was  impatient 
to  see  his  wife  and  children.  They  were  de- 
tained some  days  longer  than  they  intended 
by  the  violent  snow-storms  which  rendered 
traveling  difficult ;  but,  at  length,  with  the 
blessings  of  all  who  had  known  them,  they 
left  New  York  for  their  home  in  Detroit. 

"Far'well,  far'well,"  said  Sally,  as  she  went 
away ;  "  de  Lord  bless  ye  all  for  yer  kind- 
ness to  me,  an'  bring  us  all  together  agin  in 
de  kingdom  !  " 


AUNT   SALLY.  207 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AT   HOME  IN   FREEDOM   AND    PEACE. 

My  boy  is  mine.     His  children  sit 

At  eve  upon  my  knee; 
And  yonder  by  the  cheerful  fire, 

His  smiling  wife  I  see. 

And  every  face  is  full  of  love, 

And  every  voice  is  kind; 
I  only  thought  in  paradise 

Such  blissful  joys  to  find. 

0  Thou!  who  such  a  heavy  cross 
Did'st  give  me  strength  to  bear, 

Grant  me  all  grace  and  humbleness, 
This  joyful  crown  to  wear! 

The  following  letter  was  received  from 
Isaac,  shortly  after  he  and  his  mother  reached 
Detroit : 

Detroit,  Michigan,  Feb.  10,  1857. 
My  feelings  can  be  better  imagined  than 
described  as  I  left  New  York  and  turned  my 
face  homeward,  accompanied  by  my  mother. 
Every  thing  around  seemed  engaged  to  make 
us  happy,  and  often  joyful  expressions  would 
be  heard  fiom  mother,  as  if  she  had  but  just 


208  AUNT   SALLY. 


begun  to  feel  that  she  was  a  free  woman.  We 
went  to  Dunkirk  by  means  of  a  pass  given  us 
to  that  point  by  the  gentlemanly  president 
of  the  Erie  Railroad  Company.  As  the  cars 
moved  from  Jersey  City,  we  each  gave  one 
hearty  "Thank  God!"  that  we  had  at  last 
started  for  our  home.  We  had  not  gone  far 
before  we  became  the  subject  of  remark  among 
the  passengers.  Curiosity  led  many  to  want 
to  know  something  about  the  strangely  dressed 
old  negro  woman,  and  they  would  pass  and 
look  at  us  inquiringly.  At  length,  one  asked 
mother  whence  she  came,  and  where  she  was 
going,  to  which  she  said, 

"I's  all  de  way  from  Alabama,  an'  I 's 
gwine  home  with  my  son.    He  's  bought  me." 

I  went  into  another  car  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  as  I  came  back  I  found  a  crowd  around 
her,  each  one  listening  with  attention  to  what 
she  was  saying;  Her  eyes  seemed  to  assist 
her  mouth  in  telling  her  story.  The  news 
soon  spread  from  one  car  to  another — "  A 
mother  bought  by  her  son ! "  As  I  heard 
the  comments  that  were  passed  upon  itj  1 
must  say  that  it  seemed  to  me  the  proudest 
and  happiest  period  of  my  life.  At  dinner 
time,  a  gentleman  said  to  me.  "Take  the  old 


AUNT   SALLY.  209 


lady  out  to  dinner,  and  I  will  pay  for  you 
both,"  which  he  did.  So  we  went  on  till  we 
reached  Dunkirk,  where  we  took  the  cars  for 
Buffalo.  We  had  a  kind  reception  at  Buffalo, 
and  money  enough  was  added  to  our  little 
store  to  send  us  home.  We  reached  Windsor, 
opposite  Detroit,  at  half-past  11  o'clock  in  the 
evening  of  February  2d. 

"Is  dis  whar  we 's  gwine  to  stop?"  said 
mother. 

"  Oh,  no ;  this  is  only  the  end  of  the  rail- 
road." 

"Den  ain't  I  gwine  no  more  on  de  cars?" 

"  No,  we  're  almost  home." 

We  now  went  down  to  the  water's  edge  to 
get  on  board  the  ferryboat  to  cross  the  river. 

"Are  we  gwine  on  dis  yere  place,  Isaac?" 

"Yes,  mother,  this  is  the  boat." 

We  seated  ourselves  in  the  saloon,  and  were 
soon  landed  safely  on  the  Detroit  sids. 

"  Is  dis  de  place  whar  we  's  to  stop  ?  " 

"Yes,  this  is  the  place." 

"  Thank  de  Lord !  I 's  done  got  over  trav- 
elin'.  Now  I  wants  to  see  de  chil'en.  0>me, 
let 's  go;"  and  she  started  on  as  if  she  had  a 
perfect  knowledge  of  the  way. 

"  Stop,  mother,  we  're  not  going  out  yet. 
14 


210  AUNT  SALLY. 


It 's  a  good  ways,  and  I  must  get  some  kind 
of  a  carriage  to  take  the  trunks  up,  so  we  '11 
ride." 

"I  can  walk,  Isaac,  I 's  been  so  much  trouble 
an'  'spense  to  ye  dat  I  do  n't  want  ye  to  spend 
another  penny  for  me." 

But  a  carriage  was  procured,  and  soon  we 
were  seated  within  and  on  our  way  through 
the  dark  and  silent  streets  to  the  humble  but 
much-loved  home  whence  I  had  been  absent 
since  July,  1856. 

Mother  was  silent  till  the  carriage  stopped 
at  the  gate.     Then  she  said — 

"Is  dis  de  house?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Den  I  aint  got  to  go  no  whar  agin." 

"  Xo,  we  are  at  home  now." 

I  got  out  and  gave  her  my  hand  to  help  her 
out,  but  she  stepped  down  alone,  and  went  up 
to  the  door,  waiting  till  it  should  be  opened. 
It  was  now  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  family 
were  all  in  bed,  but  a  few  hard  and  familiar 
raps  on  the  door  were  sufficient  to  rouse 
them.  Soon  my  wife  opened  the  window  and 
exclaimed,  "  I  know  that  voice,"  and  laughing 
for  pure  joy,  she  called  out  to  the  children 
tho  welcome  news, 


AUNT   SALLY.  211 


"  Pa  and  grandma  's  come  !  " 

And  without  stopping  for  many  clothes, 
they  ran  down  and  opened  the  door,  and 
received  us  with  the  heartiest  expressions 
of  love  and  kindness.  Some  one  then  opened 
the  door  of  the  front  room,  and  mother  passed 
into  it,  and  I  presented  each  one  separately 
to  her. 

"  Oh,  mother !  mother  ! "  said  my  wife,  "  I'  m 
so  glad  to  see  you !  " 

"  And  I  too,  and  I  too,"  said  all  the  rest. 
Mother  had  heard  me  tell  of  each  one  and 
learnt  their  names  long  before,  so  looking 
around  upon  them,  she  said,  "Whar's  Mary?" 

"Mary,  my  oldest  child,  is  married  and 
lives  near  by.  She  with  her  husband  was  at 
once  sent  for,  and  came,  with  her  baby  in  her 
arms.  After  the  most  cordial  greetings  had 
been  exchanged,  mother  seemed  satisfied,  and 
exclaimed— 

"Thanks  to  de  good  Lord!  He's  been  so 
good  to  me.  See  what  He's  done  for  me. 
Glory  and  honor  to  His  name !  I  'd  almos' 
gin  out,  but  de  Lord  He  prepar'd  de  way, 

"  Chil'n,  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  is  to 
see  you  all!" 

An  hour  and  a  half  passed  away  before  we 


212  AUNT  SALLY. 


really  knew  it,  and  the  clock  striking  two, 
reminded  us  that  we  must  let  the  children 
go  back  to  bed,  and  take  a  luncheon  ourselves. 
But  before  we  separated,  all  joined  in  singing 
this  good  old  hymn : 

"And  are  we  yet  alive 

And  see  each  other's  face  ? 

Glory  and  praise  to  Jesus  give, 

For  His  redeeming  grace. 

"What  troubles  have  we  seen; 

What  conflicts  have  we  passed; 
i     Fightings  without  and  foes  within, 
Since  we  assembled  last. 

"  But  out,  of  all,  the  Lord 

Has  brought  us  by  His  love; 
And  still  He  doth  His  help  afford, 
And  hide  our  life  above." 

Never  in  all  my  life  did  I  feel  just  as  I  did 
then  in  prayer  to  Him  who  had  permitted  us 
to  meet  around  one  common  altar.  That  night 
will  long  live  in  the  memory  of  the  family. 

About  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  all 
came  together  again  for  devotions,  and  after- 
ward we  partook  of  a  refreshing  meal.  Now 
mother  could  fully  be  seen,  walking  from  one 
part  of  the  house  to  another.  She  seemed 
perfectly  happy,  and  would  exclaim, 


AUNT  SALLY.  211 


"How  well  you  's  fixed  up  !  Every  thing's 
so  nice !  Weil,  I  dunno  what  to  say,  only  I 
thank  de  Lord  for  it." 

And  this  is  the  mother  and  this  is  the 
son,  who,  through  such  peril  and  labor,  have 
escaped  from  bondage  into  freedom.  The 
facts  need  no  comments.  They  are  eloquent 
enough  of  themselves.  But  when  we  remem- 
ber that  these  are  not  isolated  cases,  but  that 
every  day  there  is  this  suffering  and  strife  for 
liberty,  with  only  now  and  then  one  fortunate 
enough  to  obtain  it,  they  become  "trumpet-" 
tongued,"  and  plead  with  us  to  rest  not^till  all 
over  the  land  liberty  shall  no  longer  be  a  name 
only,  but  the  right  and  blessing  of  every  creature. 

Sally  was  somewhat  affected  by  the  change 
of  climate.  "When  a  slave  at  Fayetteville, 
one  of  her  feet  was  injured  while  she  was  at 
work  in  the  field.  It  had  never  been  very 
strong,  and  now  the  intense  cold  increased 
the  lameness,  so  that  for  sometime  she  could 
hardly  walk;  but  at  the  coming  on  of  the 
warmer  weather  she  recovered.  Since  she 
went  to  Detroit,  she  has  been  very  desirous 
to  obtain  work  as  a  cook  by  the  week  or  tho 
month,  in  order  to  assist  her  son,  and  also  for 
her  own  peace  of  mind. 


214  AUNT   SALLY. 


"  Oh !  "  says  she,  "  when  I  ain't  doin'  no- 
thin'  I 's  all  de  time  thinkin'  on  'em  down 
dere  in  Alabama.  Poor  creeters!  dey  wants 
to  be  free,  an'  dey  can't.  I  feel  so  bad  for 
'em!  'Pears  like  I  mus'  be  busy  to  keep  dese 
yer  thoughts  out  'o  my  head." 

But  Isaac  thinks  his  mother  has  labored 
long  enough,  and  is  not  willing  she  should 
leave  his  home.  She  seems  entirely  happy 
in  his  family,  and  does  every  thing  in  her 
power  to  contribute  to  the  household  com- 
fort, and,  in  return,  all  try  to  make  her  life 
pleasant.  She  makes  a  great  pet  of  Isaac's 
youngest  child,  a  little  girl,  three  years  old, 
who,  she  thinks,  resembles  the  little  Lewis 
that  was  sold  from  her  at  Fayetteville.  One 
day  a  lady  called  to  see  Sally,  and,  going  into 
the  house,  saw  only  this  little  child. 

"Where 's  your  grandma?"  said  she. 

"O  I  'spose  she  's  singin'  'bout  her  Jesus," 
was  the  answer.  When  Sally  entered,  the 
lady  began  to  talk  to  her  about  her  life,  and, 
merely  to  see  what  reply  she  would  make, 
asked  her  if  all  that  was  published  about  her 
in  the  papers  was  true. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  she,  "  every  word  on  't — every 
word  on 't !     When   dey   reads  it   to   me,   it 


AUNT  SALLY.  215 


makes  me  feel  sick,  it  brings  back  de  ole 
times  so.  Den  I  thinks  so  much  'bout  all 
dem  I 's  lef  behind.  I  wish  dey  was  free.  I 
lo  so !  I  haint  forgot  'em,  none  of  'em,  nor 
poor  mas'r  nor  missis." 

"  I  suppose  you  enjoy  it  very  much  to  have 
your  time  to  yourself? "  said  the  lady. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  'pears  like  it 's  so  nice  to  lie 
a-bed  in  de  mornin  jes'  as  long  as  I  please.  I 
use  to  think  about  it  in  Alabama,  an'  wonder 
if  de  time  ever  'd  come  when  I  should  n't  have 
to  get  up  soon  as  de  day  broke." 

Sally  never  goes  from  home  without  her 
"free  papers,"  lest  in  some  way  her  dearly 
prized  liberty  should  be  endangered.  She 
has  made  many  visits  in  Detroit  and  the 
vicinity,  and  been  received  and  treated  with 
much  kind  attention  by  those  who  knew  her 
history.  She  greatly  enjoys  hearing  her  son 
preach  on  the  Sabbath,  and  is  interested  in 
all  he  is  doing,  and  desires  to  help  him.  Uni- 
formly cheerful,  she  looks  at  her  mercies  rather 
than  her  trials.  She  knows  not  whether  her 
first  husband  is  living  or  dead.  She  has  never 
heard  a  word  from  her  little  Lewis,  since  the 
trader  told  her  of  his  having  been  sold  at 
Claiborne.     When  she  last  heard  of  her  son 


216 


AUNT    SALLY. 


Daniel,  he  was  in  jail  in  "Virginia,  having 
escaped  from  a  cruel  master  in  North  Caro- 
lina, and  fled  toward  the  North,  and  been 
taken  up  and  imprisoned  as  a  runaway  slave. 
She  prays  for  them  all,  but  she  looks  at  Isaac 
and  is  happy. 

In  every  affliction  she  has  trusted  the  Lord, 
and  felt  that  He  could  turn  her  sorrows  to 
blessings.  Truly,  to  her  the  Cross  has  been 
the  Way  of  Freedom. 


